


go then, there are other worlds than these

by treeviality



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, And The Sheer Ethical Mess Thereof, Character Development, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Found Family, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Redemption Arcs We Just Travel To Different Timelines, POV Essek Thelyss, Timeline Shenanigans, What's Dumber Than Wizards Nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25805527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeviality/pseuds/treeviality
Summary: It’s childish, Essek’s mother has told him once, to think of different worlds and different timelines instead of living in your own. Those worlds and timelines can be harvested for power, their potential can be reaped, but it’s childish, Essek’s mother has explained, to wonder if there is a world in which he is smarter, quicker,better. It’s even more childish, Essek has learned all on his own, to wonder if there is a world in which his family loves him more than they love their made-up god.So he is, of course, being a child. But perhaps there is a world in which he can have the Mighty Nein.(Or: five times Essek traveled to different timelines for the Mighty Nein.)
Relationships: Essek Thelyss & Verin Thelyss, Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Essek Thelyss
Comments: 272
Kudos: 386





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was like, what if _Resonant Echo_ worked both ways? And then things spiraled from there. I know I don't have a great track record here, but I promise I'll do my best to actually finish this story. I hope to squeeze in an update roughly every two weeks, unless life throws even more things at me. I sure hope it's running out of things to throw, though.

** I. **

go then, there are other worlds than these  
\- stephen king, _the gunslinger_

*

It’s childish, Essek’s mother has told him once, to think of different worlds and different timelines instead of living in your own. Those worlds and timelines can be harvested for power, their potential can be reaped, but it’s childish, Essek’s mother has explained, to wonder if there is a world in which he is smarter, quicker, _better_. It’s even more childish, Essek has learned all on his own, to wonder if there is a world in which his family loves him more than they love their made-up god.

*

Home feels different now. Hollowed out.

He used to like it here. He used to like this beautiful house, its vastness and tasteful design. He used to like the peace, absolute and undisturbed. He used to like the loneliness. It’s only now that he can see the specks of dust dancing in the corridors, only now that he can taste the staleness of the air.

The Mighty Nein, vibrant and full of life, does not belong here. 

They used to annoy him, once. Unpredictable in distressing ways. Loud. Noisy. Imposing and impolite.

And kind. Relentlessly, stubbornly, _devastatingly_ kind.

“So,” Essek says, into the silence hanging heavy in the room, “where have you been?”

“Oh, Essek!” Jester exclaims. “We have so much to tell you!”

She moves as if to stand up and push Frumpkin off her knees, but she doesn’t quite make it to her feet. Beauregard places a hand on Jester’s shoulder and shakes her head. The rest of the Mighty Nein looks away. Only Caleb continues to stare silently through the window, facing away from both Essek and the Mighty Nein, with his hands in the pockets of his coat. From this angle, Essek can’t see his reflection in the window pane.

Silence, again.

“Yes, Jester?” Essek prompts, trying not to sound too eager.

The Mighty Nein avoids catching his gaze. Fjord clears his throat and examines his fingernails. Beauregard sets her jaw and stares off to the side. Yasha leans back in her seat with one ankle resting on her other knee, and stares at the sole of her boot. Veth whistles noiselessly, looking around the room. Caduceus is admiring a beetle sitting on his wrist.

Without otherwise moving a muscle, Caleb says, “Perhaps another time, friend.”

He says the word plainly, calmly, and yet the Mighty Nein collectively winces. Jester glances up at Caleb and bites her lip. By her side, Beauregard tenses and audibly cracks her knuckles as she folds her hands in her lap. Veth pauses in her whistling and then resumes it again, more forcefully. The beetle flies away.

Essek swallows. “Of course.” He clears his throat. “Is there anything I can help you with, then?”

Veth snorts inelegantly. “Haven’t you helped enough?"

A flare of anger rushes through Essek’s veins — he _has_ helped. If it weren’t for his spell, Veth would still be trapped in a body that wasn’t her own. She _owes_ him.

_She_ owes _him_.

He opens his mouth to say just that, but then Caleb moves in his peripheral vision. It’s barely perceptible; all he does is fold his hands behind his back. But it’s enough to remind Essek that the spell wasn’t, in fact, his own. It’s enough to remind him that the Mighty Nein has spared his life.

He sighs and says, “Fair enough.”

Veth huffs, but her shoulders relax and she stops whistling. She even takes one of the pastries. Beauregard leans forward, crossing her hands over her knees, a pencil dancing between her fingers.

“We don’t want your help,” she says. “We just want to set some things straight.”

Essek has misjudged her. He has seen the threat in Caleb — recognized the danger in his unfaltering focus. He has seen the threat in Caduceus — understood the risk of being watched with such innate perceptiveness. And yet he has misjudged Beauregard.

“I see,” Essek says. “What would you like to know?”

To his surprise, it’s not Beauregard who asks the first question. Instead, she glances to Jester.

Jester curls her fingers into Frumpkin’s fur. She looks smaller, with her arms hunched like that.

She says, “Essek, did you even like us at all?”

She is looking at him, too. With her lovely, sad eyes. With her lovely, sad smile. In Essek’s peripheral vision, Caleb tenses like he expects Essek to do harm. 

“Not at first, no,” Essek says, just as soft, focusing on Jester again. There is no point in lying now; it’s not like he can lose them any more than he already has. “You are not really… my kind of a crowd.”

“Sure,” Veth says loudly, “we’re not _nerds_.”

The near-friendliness of the jab is so surprising that Essek snorts. Jester’s teeth flash in a grin. Beauregard huffs a breath through her nose. Fjord barks a laugh. Caleb tucks in his chin, perhaps even to hide a smile.

And then — silence, again, settling over them like cobwebs, trapping them in place.

“I… I did grow to care for you, though,” Essek says tentatively. “Quite a lot.”

“Not enough to stop lying to us,” Beauregard points out.

The flare of anger is brighter now. Essek remembers Beauregard grinning at him and punching him in the shoulder a little too hard; he remembers her making jokes at his expense.

But he isn’t facing that Beauregard now. Now he is looking at an Expositor. 

“What was I supposed to _do_?” he snaps. “If I had told you earlier, I’d still… I’d still…”

Beauregard arches an eyebrow, unfazed. “You’d still _what_?”

“Lose us,” Caleb fills in calmly, tonelessly, easy as breathing.

Beauregard sets her jaw and doesn’t look at Caleb.

She says, “An argument could be made that he’s never had us in the first place.”

This time, the silence reigns absolute.

Frumpkin uncurls from his position in Jester’s lap and jumps onto the floor. Slowly, he makes his way across the room to where Essek is standing, and then sits by his side. Caleb continues to stare through the window.

Essek looks at the cat for a long moment, uncomprehending.

Then he mentally shrugs and says, “You have more questions, I presume.”

This time it’s Fjord who speaks up. “Tell us about the Assembly. Your work together.”

“Very well,” Essek concedes, and he can no longer hold their gazes. He looks down at his hands instead, pretends to examine his fingernails. “What would you like to know?”

He tells them everything, in the end, even though the story tastes like ashes in his mouth. He tells them how he stole the Beacons, tells them how he contacted the Assembly. He tells them of his own plans and ambitions, though his own words no longer sound quite right.

He responds sharply to Beauregard’s sharp demands, tenses up in response to Veth’s tightly-coiled tension. His anxiety claws at his throat with every passing minute of Caleb’s and Yasha’s silence, his frustration skyrockets every time Fjord rolls his eyes. Eventually even Caduceus sighs in vague exasperation, and it’s in that moment that Essek realizes — this is a goodbye.

The Mighty Nein no longer needs him, but more importantly — the Mighty Nein no longer wants him. They are strangers, now. Strangers with some bad, bad blood.

“And you still don’t regret it, do you?” Beauregard says, a pencil dancing between her fingers like a blade. “You still think you weren’t in the wrong.”

“I do regret the outcome,” Essek says, knowing that’s not at all what she wants to hear. “But no, I don’t think I’ve made a mistake. The Beacons need to be studied. My people will never agree to do that.”

“I’ve misjudged you,” Beauregard says, echoing Essek’s own thoughts. The rest of the Mighty Nein watches the exchange in silence. Only Caleb keeps staring through the window.

Essek looks at the wall above Beauregard’s shoulder.

“How so?” he asks politely, when it becomes clear that Beauregard will not elaborate.

“I thought you were different,” Beauregard says. It sounds like a verdict, a crisp parchment unrolling, the executioner raising their axe. “I thought you could be a friend. I was mistaken.” 

Jester frowns. “Beau —”

Essek folds his hands behind his back. They do not tremble. “You don’t know me, Beauregard.”

“No,” Beauregard agrees easily. “Nor do I wish to. As far as I’m concerned, we are done.”

Essek raises his chin. “Then I suppose we are.”

“Beau,” Jester tries again, but Beauregard already stood up. “ _Essek_.”

Essek looks away.

The Mighty Nein follows Beauregard’s lead. They straighten their clothes, pick up their belongings, exchange quick words. Essek stares at their distorted reflections in the mirrorlike surfaces of his polished furniture. He doesn’t let himself think of anything at all.

Caleb is the last one to move, though Beauregard pauses at the door to wait for him.

Unlike the rest of the Mighty Nein, Caleb doesn’t seem to be in any rush to leave. Essek doesn’t let himself wonder if it means anything at all. He only waits, with his hands still folded behind his back, trying not to focus on the way his house turns darker and darker with every person who leaves it. After all, he is not made for light.

Caleb bends to pick up Frumpkin. He gathers the cat carefully in his arms, presses a kiss to the top of its head. Then, for the first time since they arrived in Essek’s home, he meets Essek’s gaze.

“I still owe you that spell,” he says. Essek’s heart, ever the traitor, flutters hopefully in his chest. But then Caleb adds, “I’ll transcribe it and send it to you as soon as I can.”

And then he leaves, with a soft _Auf Wiedersehen,_ and Beauregard shoots Essek another warning look as she walks with Caleb out of the house and towards the rest of the Mighty Nein.

And just like that, they are out of Essek’s life.

*

The first letter from the Assembly comes in a plain envelope that simply materializes on Essek’s desk one evening, a flare of flame calligraphing his name on top as he stares down at the paper. _Essek Thelyss_ , the envelope spells out in a graceful handwriting, and the ink burns bright for a moment before turning charcoal-black.

Once upon a time, the elegant display of power would spark Essek’s interest, but now fear washes over him like a tidal wave. _Why fire_ , his mind questions anxiously as Essek picks up the envelope and turns it around gingerly, examining the seal on the other side. _Why fire?_

Unhelpfully, his mind casts back to the unease in Caleb’s face at the very mention of the Assembly, the fear lurking deep in his eyes. He thinks of the way Caleb rubs at his forearms sometimes, and of the way he pulled up the Scourger’s sleeves to examine her scars. He thinks of that terrible party in Nicodranas, of the way Caleb handled himself during his brief conversation with the Martinet. He thinks of the stiff line of Caleb’s spine, the care he put into choosing his words.

He drops the envelope back onto the desk.

He can nearly feel the phantom touch of Caleb’s lips on his forehead, the brand of acceptance granted despite not being earned. It astounds him still that Caleb chose to draw parallels between them when it would be so easy to set himself apart.

But Essek is not made for kindness. The letter on his desk is the final proof of that.

He picks up the envelope again and opens it mechanically, skimming through the contents of the letter. He feels no curiosity, now. What is the point of knowledge, if it cannot be shared? What is the point of magic, if he cannot bring the letter to the house with the tree on top, if he cannot show it to the person he longs to discuss it with, if he cannot see the familiar blue eyes brighten with excitement, if he cannot hear that lovely voice sharpen with interest? What is the point of learning, if he cannot use the information for something, anything, that would earn him a hug from Jester or a grin from Fjord or a nod from Beauregard?

For just a moment, Essek can see the rest of his life stretching before him, lifetimes and lifetimes of this endless climb for power that suddenly holds no value in this lonely, silent room and in his lonely, silent mind.

And the thought is unbearable.

He pushes away from the desk, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and he stalks over to the tall, stained-glass windows. It’s raining outside, but Essek’s enchantments keep the sounds away, and suddenly he can’t stand that, either. He wrestles with the handle of the nearest window and finally wrenches it open just enough for the smell of storm to filter in.

It’s instantly much easier to breathe.

He wonders where the Mighty Nein is, whether it’s also raining where they are, whether the sky is equally clouded, the moons equally bright. He wonders if there is a world in which he travels with them, in which he is a part of that small family that once upon a time happily welcomed him into their ranks.

And then he realizes how easy it would be to find out.

He nearly stumbles in his haste to cross the room and open one of the cabinets filled with his old scrolls. A few of them fall out, scattering all over the floor and rolling away from his feet, but he pays them no mind.

He easily finds the right one.

The writing is messy with excitement and hope, the drawings are sharp with confidence.

Essek’s writing has changed with time. His drawings have not.

It’s a ridiculously expensive spell to cast, but Essek barely blinks as he gathers the components and rearranges the furniture around the room to make more space. He drops to his knees, caring little about the state of his robes, and begins to draw the runes on the floor, barely sparing the time to consider the parameters of the timeline he is trying to reach.

He is, of course, being a child.

But perhaps there is a world in which he can have the Mighty Nein.

*

“Esseeeeek, you sleeping?”

The first feeling he registers is _warmth_. There is something tickling his cheek and when he huffs an annoyed breath, he inhales a lungful of a vaguely familiar, soothing scent. He opens his eyes and has to blink rapidly for a few seconds while his eyesight adjusts to the soft glow of a fire. Then he realizes that he is lying on the ground, separated from the grass only by a few blankets and his own arm folded beneath his head. And then he realizes that his body is pressed against Caleb’s back and that his other arm is curled around Caleb’s waist, holding him close.

He startles and sits up, the blanket falling off his shoulders and pooling in his lap. Caleb makes a noise of complaint in his sleep and Essek blinks down at him, perplexed.

Slowly, gingerly, he covers Caleb with the blanket again, fussing uncertainly for an excruciatingly long moment and then tucking the blanket in carefully to keep the cool night air away. Caleb sighs to himself and presses closer to Fjord’s back, though there is still a small frown on his face.

The entire Mighty Nein is huddled beneath Caleb’s dome, pressed together like little kittens, and the realization that there is a world in which he is a part of something like that opens a chasm in Essek’s chest.

He glances up and meets Jester’s cheerful gaze.

“Hello, Jester,” he murmurs quietly, fighting the sudden tightness in his throat. “No, I’m not sleeping.”

“Oh, thank _god_ ,” Jester says, flopping dramatically onto her back before scrambling to sit up again, just to topple over against Essek and drop her head onto his shoulder. “Essek, I’m _so_ bored. I can’t sleep _at all_.”

Essek’s mind filters through some memories from this timeline, though he knows better than to cling to them. He remembers the side-effects of the spell and he knows that if he allows himself to retain too much information, his consciousness might become tethered to this body and he might not be able to leave this timeline at all. Funny, how it once seemed like such a risk.

Gently, uncertainly, he pats Jester on the back. His own hands look so foreign, with dirt beneath the fingernails, with scars on the knuckles. Even more foreign is the press of metal against his chest. He frowns and looks down, barely resists the urge to examine the strange pendant hanging on his neck. It’s vaguely familiar, though Essek can’t quite recall where he has seen it before.

He looks up at Jester again. “Well, I’m awake with you now.”

“Thank _god_ ,” Jester says again, shuffling around to sit by Essek’s side, with her knees pulled to her chest. “Let’s play a game!”

Essek immediately grows wary. “A game?”

“Of course!” Jester exclaims. “We should play… truth!”

Essek pauses. After a beat, he ventures, “…or dare?”

Jester rolls her eyes. “No, silly! What would I dare you to do right now, kiss Caleb? He’s asleep! And I’m _pretty sure_ he wouldn’t want to miss that!”

“Right,” Essek says, letting himself think of the foreign memories just long enough to ascertain that this Essek hasn’t kissed Caleb either, though the idea certainly _did_ cross his mind. “Truth, then?”

“Yes!” Jester says. “Okay, okay, okay. _Essek_.” She pauses, her eyes crinkling with mischief and flashing with the reflection of fire. “What is… your favorite color?”

Essek blinks, caught off-guard. “What?”

“Your favorite color, quickly!” Jester prompts, snapping her fingers in front of Essek’s face. “Don’t overthink it, go, go, go!”

“It’s blue,” Essek says, bewildered. “My favorite color is blue.”

To his horror, Jester _coos_. “Aw,” she says, grinning wide. “Aw, of course it is. Essek, that’s _so_ romantic.”

Essek’s mind, helpfully, does connect the dots. “Plenty of things are blue,” he says defensively.

“Oh, yeah?” Jester says, eyebrows raised. “Name one.”

Essek’s mind, unhelpfully, short-circuits.

“Um…” He looks around frantically, trying to think of anything except Caleb’s eyes. “Um, you?”

Jester snorts, her smile good-natured. “Sure _,_ okay.”

Something in the way she says that gives Essek a pause. He looks at Jester — really looks at her — and frowns. She is smiling, her eyes wide with mischief and joy, but she keeps fidgeting with the amulet at her belt, and while that means nothing to Essek — to the _other_ Essek this means that something is wrong.

He prods at the unfamiliar memories a little more, even though his magic shivers in warning.

“I do like blue a lot more because of you,” he says quietly, struggling with the sheer _earnestness_ of the admission. He is not made for kindness. “You are… you are a good friend, Jester.” He thinks back through the timeline, finds it similar enough to his own. “You’re the first friend I’ve ever had.”

“Oh,” Jester says softly. “Oh, Essek, you’re a wonderful friend, too!”

The chasm in Essek’s chest, forgotten for a moment, opens up, and the mess of misery and longing all pours out. To his horror, he realizes that his eyes are stinging so badly that he can’t afford to blink, not if he is to maintain any illusion of composure.

“I’m not, though,” he says quietly, looking into his lap. He desperately wants to examine the memories further, to see what it is that this Essek got so right that somehow he has earned this, that somehow he can have this life.

But he cannot.

If he stays, he doesn’t know what will happen to that other Essek, to the one whose life this is, the one whose kisses Caleb wouldn’t want to miss, the one who is a _wonderful friend_.

Essek is a selfish creature, but he is not yet as selfish as that.

Jester frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Essek says quickly. “I’m sorry, don’t mind me. Thank you, Jester. That… that means a lot.”

“Aw, of course!” Jester exclaims, and she throws her arms around Essek, pulling him into a strange half-hug as they are both sitting side by side with their knees drawn up. Essek drops his head onto her shoulder and inhales sharply, blinking the tears away. It wouldn’t do to upset Jester. It wouldn’t do at all.

He clears his throat. “I think it’s my turn,” he says. “Jester… what are your favorite cupcakes?”

“Oh, _man!_ ” Jester exclaims forlornly, and then, to Essek’s utter lack of surprise, she launches into a detailed description of every cupcake she has ever tasted, weighing the merits of all of them one by one. Essek listens, while the weight in his heart lessens with every passing minute. He laughs a little at the stories she tells him, grins at the giddy excitement in her eyes as she tries to count her options on her fingers, provides parchment when she decides she has to write it all out.

He is grateful for her presence disrupting the silence in his mind, for the way her arm presses against his own, offering support and warmth. He is even more grateful for the way she stops fidgeting with the Traveler symbol at her belt, for the way her shoulders relax.

Eventually, though, Jester yawns loudly and begins to lean more heavily into Essek’s side. For a moment, Essek wants to protest, selfishly desperate for a little more of her time, but she is tired, and she needs her rest. Besides, Essek can already feel the pull of magic dragging him back to his timeline as he settles again on his side.

There is little room, but he still tries to inch away from Caleb, even though Jester complains loudly when he accidentally elbows her in the side. Naturally, despite his efforts, he wakes Caleb, too.

“Mm, where’d you go?” Caleb complains in sleepy annoyance, and he grabs Essek’s arm and drags it around his waist, snuggling back until they’re pressed together again. His hair, scattered on the blanket, tickles Essek’s cheek again, and he has to close his eyes as affection swells in his chest like blood in an open wound.

“Nowhere,” he murmurs back, and allows himself to briefly tighten the embrace. The content sigh he earns in response punches all air from his lungs. “I’m right here.”

“It’s black moss cupcakes, I think,” Jester decides, pulling another blanket over all three of them. “Last one, Essek! What do you want most in the world?”

Caleb, apparently more awake than he seemed, huffs a laugh and runs his fingertips over Essek’s knuckles before threading their fingers together beneath the blankets, dragging their joined hands a little closer to his heart.

“ _Yes_ , Thelyss,” he murmurs. “What do you want most in the world?”

“Hey!” Jester says, jumping to Essek’s defense. She props herself on one elbow and leans over Essek to poke Caleb harshly between the ribs. “You’re _not_ playing our game, Caleb!”

Caleb huffs an amused breath, but he doesn’t prod any further, snuggling against Essek’s body again and squeezing his hand in a faux-apology. Jester, seemingly appeased by that reaction, settles behind Essek again, curling her fingers into the back of his shirt, her breath warm in Essek’s hair.

The pull of magic dragging Essek back is unbearable now. As is the temptation to stay.

“Just this,” he says softly, breathing the words against the nape of Caleb’s neck, trying to memorize the warmth so that it can keep the cold away for the rest of his life. “This is what I want most in the world.”

And then he lets it go.

*

There is a clock ticking, loud — loud — loud.

The floor beneath Essek’s knees is hard and cold to touch. The lights of Rosohna glow behind the stained glass of the windows, the rivulets of rain sending shadows dancing across the room. Gold dust settles around Essek on the floor, turning charcoal-black. He shivers in the cold expanse of the room and for a moment, the tightness in his chest grows unbearable and all he wants to do is reach for his own throat and tear it open so that this agonizing pain can find a way out. He doesn’t have a name for it, for this sudden grief for things he has never even had, but more than anything, he wants it _gone_.

He doesn’t want to miss them. He doesn’t want to doubt himself. He doesn’t want this horrible, _horrible_ regret. He wants to rip it from his chest, burn it out, tear it into pieces, crush it into dust. 

But he gets up, instead. 

He dusts off his robes and straightens them out. He rearranges the furniture again. He closes the window, wipes the rain off the window sill. He washes his hands. Washes his face. Runs his fingers through his hair.

There is no value in this pain. There is no value in kneeling in this silent, empty room for the rest of his life.

The Mighty Nein intends to deal with the Chained Oblivion now, and it occurs to Essek that perhaps that is something he can help with. If this matters to the Mighty Nein, it matters to Essek as well.

Even if he will never again be the Mighty Nein’s friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥
> 
> Please check out the [wonderful art](https://twitter.com/caltracat/status/1328546640093855744?s=21) created by [darundik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darundik/profile) for the last scene of this chapter!!! ♥ :')


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers, thank you so much for reading the first chapter! And especially thank you to those of you who took the time to comment and share your thoughts with me, that means a great deal to me. :') ♥ I hope you enjoy the second part of the story!    
> 

**II.**

*

It’s quiet in the Marble Tomes Conservatory, quiet enough that Essek can hear his own breathing and the soft click of metal against crystal as he dips his pen in ink. Every time he opens a book, its spine crackles like branches of an old tree; every time he turns a page, it rustles beneath his fingers like autumn leaves.

The sources on Tharizdun are scarce. There are few records and fewer academic papers. There are, however, stories. There are tales and myths, spun and twisted together like yarn. 

And there is time.

When Essek arrives to the Marble Tomes Conservatory early in the morning, it’s to the rattle of old keys in the rusty lock. When he leaves late at night, it’s to the sound of his own footsteps echoing in empty corridors. He welcomes the numbness that settles deep in his bones whenever he forgoes rest entirely. Tangled in old stories and cocooned in exhaustion, his thoughts rarely stray to the Mighty Nein.

“So, what’s up?”

Essek startles and stops reading midsentence. Beauregard is standing above him, with her arms crossed over her chest, her hip propped against the edge of Essek’s table. Her gaze sweeps over the maps and partially unrolled scrolls; she raises an eyebrow at the piles of books surrounding the table like a colonnade.

Essek stares at her. “Can I help you?”

Beauregard hums. “That remains to be seen. Do you mind if we join you?”

Only then does Essek notice Caleb. He is standing a step behind Beauregard and he seems distinctly ill-at-ease. Essek looks him over out of habit; notes the tension in Caleb’s shoulders, the carefully blank expression on his face, the way his gaze wanders without ever resting on anything in particular.

He looks back at Beauregard and says, “If you wish.”

Beauregard seems unperturbed by the lukewarm welcome. She pulls out one of the chairs, letting it drag across the floor. Then she drops onto it, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankles.

Caleb sinks into the chair by Beauregard’s side. He raises his hand, as if to summon Frumpkin to his lap, but then he lets it fall again and he fidgets with the sleeves of his coat instead.

Beauregard tilts her chair back. “So,” she says, “what are you working on?”

There is a challenge in her voice. It sets Essek’s teeth on edge.

He raises his chin. “Why do you care?”

After a beat, Caleb glances up. All he does is catch Essek’s gaze and hold it for a moment before looking away again.

It’s, naturally, enough. Essek has to admire the strategy that went into this interrogation. 

He sighs. “What is it that you actually want from me?” he asks, turning to Beauregard again. Abruptly, he feels tired, like he hasn’t properly rested in years. “I thought we were… done?”

Beauregard shrugs. “Doesn’t mean we can’t keep an eye on you.”

Essek looks down at the book before him. The font is sharp and clear. He can’t make out a single word.

“I see,” he says, when he can once again trust his own voice. “In that case, I need to return to my work.”

Caleb sighs. “We can both read Undercommon, Essek.”

That does give Essek a pause. The books on the table and around it touch on a variety of subjects, but their general theme is undeniably the Chained Oblivion. It can probably be gleaned from the titles alone.

Beauregard huffs through her nose.

“Well, there goes that advantage,” she says, slanting Caleb a look. “Fine. What do you want with the Chained Oblivion, Essek?”

Essek slams his book shut, unnerved by the clear suspicion in Beauregard’s voice.

“I’m _working_ ,” he snaps. “You’ve proclaimed Tharizdun to be a threat. It’s my responsibility to investigate all threats to the Dynasty.”

Beauregard snorts. Before she can say anything, though, Caleb leans forward in his seat.

“And?” he prompts, his voice deliberately casual. “Did you find anything?”

Essek’s first instinct is to bargain. If he cannot have their friendship, he needs to secure their allegiance. They know too much. If he isn’t careful, they will be his undoing.

Then he catches Caleb’s gaze again, registers a flicker of something like hope in his eyes, as if — despite knowing Essek as he now does — he still expects Essek to simply help them out.

It’s strange, to be trusted despite being known.

With a wave of his hand, Essek sends the scrolls rolling to one corner of the table and the books flying to their respective piles. Then he summons the map.

As it unrolls, it brings forth a faint smell of old paint and the sizzling electricity of protective magic. The spells preserving it are powerful enough to send a shiver up Essek’s spine. And they’re effective, too. The paint looks as bright as it must have looked the day it left the brush, all lines are sharp and clear, the parchment itself is smooth and undamaged.

Both Beauregard and Caleb lean over the map. While Caleb instantly becomes engrossed in examining it, Beauregard straightens and looks up at Essek.

“And you just found this lying around,” she says. “In a fucking library.”

Caleb, in the meantime, has stepped around the table to take a closer look at the map. He seems tired. Strands of hair have slipped out of his hair tie, and he brushes them back impatiently from time to time. His hands are stained with ink, his nails are bitten. Gone is the healthy glow gained from long travels in the sun; there are shadows beneath his eyes instead, starkly dark against the paleness of his skin.

“ _Essek_ ,” Beauregard snaps. The protectiveness in her voice wouldn’t be more obvious if she brandished a shield.

Essek drops his gaze.

“No, Beauregard,” he says, staring down at the map without really seeing it. “I didn’t just find it lying around. It’s one of the oldest maps the Dynasty has in its possession. It comes from a private collection. It cost me quite a few favors to borrow it.”

Quite a few is an understatement. Essek has always made sure not to be in anyone’s debt, always made sure to secure the loyalty of those around him without owing them anything in return.

He owes, now.

He expects Beauregard to latch on to the subject, but surprisingly, she does not. She studies Essek instead for a moment longer and then moves her attention to Caleb.

“So?” she says, circling the table to look over his shoulder. “What do you make of this?”

Caleb glances up at Essek, as if waiting for permission, which is unexpectedly kind. Essek nods; for once he feels no need to take credit for his work. It’s enough for his knowledge to once again be shared. It’s enough to feel useful, even if only for a little while.

Caleb clears his throat.

“There is something off with the colors and the writing here,” he explains slowly, haltingly, but with every word, his confidence seems to grow. He points to Rexxentrum. “The map is well preserved and yet the shades of colors differ. The lines do, too. And the writing.”

Beauregard frowns. “It’s a forgery?”

“Not exactly,” Caleb says.

He looks up at Essek, his eyes bright with excitement, and Essek is reminded of the day they designed the Transmogrification Spell together. His heart twists in his chest.

“Go on,” he says quietly.

Caleb nods, leaning over the map again.

“Parts of the map were repainted at a later date, weren’t they?” he says. “To hide whatever was underneath.”

Essek nods. “I believe so. It might be nothing. But it would be consistent with the attempts to hide the location of the Shackles. And it’s the only lead I’ve managed to find.” 

Beauregard frowns. “If they wanted to hide the Shackles, why put them on a map in the first place?”

Essek shrugs. “As I’ve said, this map is very old. Its origin is unclear. The location of the Shackles is a secret now, but perhaps that wasn’t always the case.”

Beauregard hums .“Any other inconsistencies?”

“Yes,” Caleb replies. “Among others, Vasselheim.”

That does draw Beauregard’s attention. She leans over the map again while Caleb looks up at Essek.

The brightness of excitement hasn’t yet faded from his eyes. Uncharacteristically, he keeps holding Essek’s gaze. Essek thinks back to studying together, elbows always nearly touching, fingers always nearly brushing. He thinks of old dreams and impossible things.

“Holy shit,” Beauregard says. “This might be legit.”

Essek drops his gaze. “I hope so,” he says quietly. It’s childish to think of different worlds and different timelines instead of living in his own. “Where will you go first?”

There is no reply. When Essek glances up, Caleb and Beauregard are looking at each other without speaking. Finally, Beauregard shakes her head once and Caleb huffs a breath and glances away.

Beauregard turns to Essek. “Yeah, we’re not telling you that.”

Anxiety squeezes Essek’s chest. “And if something happens to you?”

Beauregard snorts. “Why? Would you come to our rescue?”

_I would_ , Essek thinks, and the thought is terrifying in its simplicity. _I would._

But he can’t quite make himself say it.

“Yeah,” Beauregard says. “That’s what I thought. Caleb, we need to get going.”

Caleb leans away from the map and glances at Essek.

He says, “Apologies, my friend. We’re on a tight schedule. Thank you for your help.”

Beauregard hums. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get moving.”

“Take this,” Essek says impulsively, rolling up the map and holding it out to Beauregard. It’s large enough that he has to sidestep the table to offer it. “It might be of use.”

Beauregard raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just tell us it cost you a lot to _borrow_ this?”

“You have the means to protect it, yes?” Essek says. He can’t quite make himself meet their gazes. He stares at the map instead, still in his outstretched hand. “I trust you to return it to me.”

Beauregard hesitates — only for a second, but she does hesitate. Then she shrugs.

“Cool,” she says. She takes the map and rests it against her shoulder. “See you around, I guess.”

When Beauregard turns to leave, Caleb says, “I’ll join you in a moment.”

Beauregard raises an eyebrow. Caleb looks back at her in silence and it occurs to Essek that he very rarely sees Caleb hold anyone’s gaze like that. He does so, now. Quite unflinchingly.

Beauregard tilts her head to the side. She nods. Then she turns around on her heel and leaves, without sparing Essek another glance. This time, she doesn’t wait for Caleb by the door.

Caleb stares after her until the door closes and silence falls again. Then he turns to Essek. Without meeting Essek’s gaze, he places a scroll on the table and slides it over to Essek. His hand lingers for a moment and then it withdraws.

“Our spell,” he says quietly.

Essek blinks. Slowly, he reaches for the scroll and unfolds it. The parchment is smooth beneath his fingers, undeniably expensive. The care put into the calligraphy is obvious even at a glance. Essek stares at the neat cursive and imagines the familiar study in the familiar house, the candlelight just a little too bright, the air just a little too warm. He imagines a pen carefully dipped in ink and then pressed to the parchment. He imagines voices and laughter filtering through the walls.

His heart once again twists in his chest.

“Thank you,” he replies, folding the scroll with care.

Silence falls again, and yet Caleb doesn’t leave. Instead, he busies himself with pushing in Beauregard’s chair and then rearranging his own so that they are perfectly parallel. Then he glances up at Essek again.

He says, “Is it really alright for us to take the map?”

Essek shrugs. He tries not to think too much of the debts he has created in the recent weeks.

“It’s fine,” he says. “As I’ve said, I trust you to keep it safe.”

There is a pause. Then Caleb says, very deliberately, “Why?”

There are too many answers to that question. Essek stalls by unrolling the scrolls he was studying.

Finally, without looking at Caleb, he says, “You are careful with things that are precious to you. I have no reason to doubt you.”

Caleb is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I won’t give you a reason.”

“I know,” Essek admits; the simple truth of the statement twists in his chest like a knife. No matter how much the Mighty Nein doubts him, they never gave him a reason to doubt them in return. He can’t quite make himself look up again. “Was there anything else, or —”

“Are you alright?” Caleb interrupts.

Essek blinks, startled into glancing up. “Um, yes?” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Caleb looks him over in a somewhat exaggerated manner, and Essek is suddenly keenly aware that he spent most of the last few weeks in this library. He is also keenly aware that he isn’t wearing his mantle, which is hanging off the back of his chair, and that his tunic, while clean, is inevitably wrinkled and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.

Self-consciously, he rubs at the ink stains on his wrists.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “I just get carried away with work sometimes.”

He looks up just as Caleb looks away and rubs at the back of his neck. 

“Thank you for helping us,” Caleb says. “We were grasping at straws.”

“It’s nothing,” Essek repeats, casting about for something to look at. The piles of books and scrolls on the floor only make him more self-conscious. “I hope it proves useful.”

Caleb nods again. He is tracing the back of Beauregard’s chair now, clearly for the lack of anything else to do with his hands, and Essek suddenly remembers having those fingers tangled with his own, in an impossible world far, far away.

_Yes, Thelyss. What do you want most in the world?_

_I miss you_ , Essek thinks, and the realization is like plunging into deep dark water, with no sky in sight. _I miss you._

Out loud, he says, “Please say hello to Jester from me.”

Caleb tilts his head to the side.

“Oh. _Ja_ , of course,” he says. He bites his lip. “I… I should go.”

Yet he still doesn’t move. He keeps looking at Essek instead and Essek is helpless to do anything but look back. He imagines this is what it must feel like to be caught in the event horizon of one of his own gravitational spells.

Then Caleb drops his gaze and says, “Get some rest, Essek.”

He leaves before Essek can so much as nod.

*

The Mighty Nein doesn’t contact Essek for a very long time.

For a while, he ignores the anxiety blooming in his chest. If they need his help, he is only a spell away.

He completes his duties in a timely manner. He sleeps, despite not needing rest. He tries to lose himself in his old projects, but he finds himself glancing up hopefully at the slightest of sounds, perking up whenever there is a knock on the door.

But the Mighty Nein doesn’t come.

For the lack of anything else to do, Essek circles back to the Marble Tomes Conservatory. He continues to study the tales and myths he already knows by heart. He follows every thread he can find, traces them through decades and across continents. Together, they weave a picture as haunting as it is incomprehensible. Essek spends many nights wandering the empty rooms of his quiet home, thinking back to the stories of cruelty and hunger, stories of wars and deaths.

The Mighty Nein has dealt with many threats before, but Essek has no doubt that this is the greatest one yet.

He could scry on them. He could make sure they are safe. Then again, the Mighty Nein has the means of discovering that they are being scried upon. And they made a point of not telling Essek where they are going. Whatever trust remains between them, it’s too fragile to risk damaging it again.

There is, of course, another solution.

There must be a timeline in which he went with them. There must be a timeline he could visit to make sure that the threat they are facing can be handled, that they are not in danger and don’t need his help.

And they would never need to know.

A strange sort of apprehension crawls up Essek’s spine as he makes his way to his desk and opens the bottom drawer. The spell awaits him, its lines excitable and messy. The components list seems more daunting now than it did the first time around. More daunting is also the list of possible mishaps and side-effects noted carelessly at the bottom of the scroll.

Essek stares at the parchment for a moment while time around him stretches and stretches. It feels wrong to use the spell in such a manner. It feels like cheating.

Then again, Essek has betrayed entire nations for less.

He goes through the motions mechanically, ignoring the strange tightness in his throat. All he needs to do is make sure that the Mighty Nein is not in danger. Then he will return to his duties and he will not spend any more time thinking of worlds other than his own.

The floor is cold beneath his fingers. The golden dust clings to the ink as he draws the runes.

Essek takes a deep breath, thinks of impossible things, and casts.

*

There is an open window. A ripple of wind passes through the blinds. Behind the blinds, there is the western sky, fluffy clouds rolling across the endless blue expanse. There is a city below, filled with loud voices and boisterous laughter and foreign songs. The air smells of sunlit sands and open sea.

Essek is comfortable and he is warm, and he can feel himself drifting back to sleep.

Then he takes a breath and nearly doubles over in pain.

He hisses and presses a hand to his side. He is lying on his back in a large bed, his pillow propped up high against the headboard. There are bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. With every breath, he can feel his ribs expand and push against his skin, meeting resistance where there should be none.

“Good, you’re awake,” a familiar voice says.

Essek glances to the other side of the bed. Beauregard is there, with her chair tipped back and her boots propped against the side of Essek’s bed. She has a notebook in her lap and she quickly finishes writing something before tossing the notebook to the foot of the bed.

She leans forward, letting the chair rebalance itself. Essek leans back.

Beauregard raises an eyebrow. “You’re really out of it, eh?” she says. She grabs a cup from the nightstand and brings it to Essek’s lips, batting his hands away. “Come on, what am I going to do, poison you? You’re weak like a kitten, I could just smother you with a pillow.”

Essek makes an indignant noise, but then he has no choice but to focus on drinking. He takes small sips, looking warily around the room. It’s fairly large, though there is little in terms of furniture. Other than the bed and Beauregard's chair, there is only a small table with two stools in the other end of the room. On the table is a simple vase with a bouquet of field flowers. Another bouquet has been placed on the nightstand by the bed. 

The flowers are unfamiliar in colors and shapes. There is a ribbon binding them together.

Essek frowns, trying to focus through the haze of pain still clouding his mind. In this timeline, he has accompanied the Mighty Nein to investigate the Shackles. And then —

And then — nothing.

Essek blinks. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember, do you?” Beauregard says thoughtfully. “Caduceus said that might happen.”

She leans back in her chair and downs the rest of the water from Essek’s cup, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. When Essek grimaces, she snorts a laugh.

“At least you still got your priorities straight,” she says. “Don’t worry, Jester will fix you up after she rests.”

That won’t do. He can’t leave until the spell runs its course. If he gains no useful information from this, he will have wasted time and resources for nothing.

And it’s now clear that the Mighty Nein is, indeed, in danger.

“Where are we?” Essek asks, once again looking around the room. It’s filled with warm shadows; the sunlight filtering through the blinds is soft enough not to hurt his eyes. There are specks of dust floating in the air, glimmering like fireflies.

“Veth and Yeza’s house,” Beauregard says. “Nicodranas.” She pauses. “Caleb brought us to the teleportation circle here. I think he panicked a little. I guess you were too busy bleeding out?”

“I… suppose,” Essek says, even though the concept of bleeding out is wholly unfamiliar.

Beauregard hums. “Yussa offered to let us stay, but these days we’re not too keen on owing big favors to powerful wizards, you know?”

Essek smiles lopsidedly. “I know,” he says. “But what exactly happened? What’s all this?” He gestures to the bandages. “Where’s… everyone? _”_

“I’m not supposed to tell you. Jester said —”

“Oh my god,” another voice interrupts. Essek flinches; he didn’t even notice Veth in the shadows of the room. She is, however, undeniably there, now perched at the edge of the table, with her crossbow in her lap. “You ran into a _Disintegrate_.”

Essek pauses at the phrasing. “Ran into?”

“Oh yeah,” Veth says. “ _Big_ time.”

“Veth,” Beauregard says sharply. “Jester clearly said —”

Essek pushes himself up in bed and looks at Veth. “Why the hell would I do that?”

Veth snorts. Beauregard turns around to look at her. Veth makes a sharp gesture. Beauregard replies with a flurry of gestures. Veth shakes her head. Beauregard looks to the ceiling and grimaces.

“Well.” She turns to Essek again. “Why do you think?”

And suddenly Essek does remember.

Not any useful details, no. But he remembers the fray, he remembers the spells flying around him and over his head, the rays of deadly light cutting through the air at a terrifying speed, nearly impossible to avoid. He remembers fear, tying his stomach in knots. He remembers his own magic draining even faster than his blood. And he remembers the green ray of _Disintegrate_ racing towards Caleb’s back. 

“Oh,” Essek says.

“Yeah,” Veth agrees, unconcerned. “Like I said. _Big_ time.”

Essek swallows. His skin feels too tight for his body. His chest aches, and the ache is spreading like vines, tightening its grip on his heart. He can’t breathe. His throat is closing up. He can’t —

“Hey!” Beauregard snaps her fingers in front of his face. “None of that shit!”

Essek flinches away. His mind pushes forth even more details, the faces of the attackers, the colors of their clothes, the weapons in their hands, the spells at their disposal.

They were sent by the Assembly.

“Essek,” snaps someone else. “You’re in Nicodranas. With us. The Mighty Nein. The fight is over. We’ve all made it out. I’m Veth. Remember me?”

“I remember you,” Essek manages, finally drawing a breath. The pain in his chest is sharp again. When he presses a hand to his side, it comes away stained with blood. It’s shaking, too.

“Well, fuck,” Beauregard says. She is standing now, while Veth is sitting at the side of the bed. Essek didn’t even see them move. “He ripped his stitches. Should I wake Jester or Cad or…?”

Veth sighs. “No, I’ve got this,” she says. She unclips a small bottle from her belt. “Drink up, wizard boy.”

Too exhausted to object, Essek drinks the potion. Veth sighs again, extremely put upon, and clips the empty bottle back to her belt.

“You owe me,” she tells Essek. “Two hundred gold. I think. No more panicking, got it?”

Essek manages a nod.

Beauregard and Veth exchange a glance.

“Wizards, eh?” Veth says, shaking her head. “I’ll go check up on the other one.” She must see something in Essek’s face, because she rolls her eyes. “He is fine. Just sleeping. Get a grip, Thelyss.”

She leaves, with her crossbow in hand, while Beauregard once again sits down and props her boots on Essek’s bed.

“You are really so damn obvious,” she tells him, without malice. “It’s seriously criminal.”

Essek should have disintegrated when he had the chance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Beauregard rolls her eyes. Then she lets her chair fall back on all four legs and she leans forward again.

“You saved his life today,” she says.

Essek shrugs, looking down and examining his fingernails. Despite being stained with blood, this Essek’s hands are not so different from his own. “You save each other’s lives every day.”

“Essek,” Beauregard says, prompting him to look up again. “I’m trying to say something here.”

Essek arches an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Beauregard scowls, but she remains determined. “ _Essek_.”

Essek waits. After a beat, he says, “Yes?”

Beauregard stares at him with a mix of resolve and annoyance. When she finally grits the words out, they sound far heavier than anything Essek has ever heard her say.

“Look,” she says, and she is staring Essek down like they’re having a fight, “he is like a brother to me.”

Essek blinks at her. “Is this the… ah, what do you call it? The shovel talk?”

“Shut up,” Beauregard says and punches him in the shoulder. Essek winces. Beauregard frowns in mild concern and awkwardly pats his arm. Then she looks him in the eye again. “Listen. He is like a brother to me.”

“Yes,” Essek says slowly, when Beauregard pauses again. “I’ve gathered.”

Beauregard huffs an annoyed breath. “And you saved his life,” she finally elaborates. “Jester had no power left. Neither did Cad. Neither, for that matter, did you. And you knew that.”

He _did_ know that.

“I didn’t really have time to think about it,” Essek hedges. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, as if he had to make the choice himself. He is _not_ made for bravery. “There wasn’t much time at all.”

“Oh, I know,” Beauregard says. “But you still did it.”

Essek glances up at that. Beauregard continues watching him. For once, without disappointment.

“Oh,” Essek says quietly.

“Yup,” Beauregard agrees, picking up her notebook again and leaning back in her chair. “Go back to sleep. I won’t smother you unless you snore.”

*

The sky is aflame. The air in Essek’s lungs feels heavy like molasses. Fear clogs his every breath. Spells are flying around him and over his head. His own magic crackles in his hands like a thunderstorm, bending gravity and probability and even time, and it’s still not nearly enough. Beauregard spins around him in a whirl of blue and gold. The Traveler’s symbol at Jester’s belt shines bright with green light.

The sky is aflame. Essek looks around and tries to catch Caleb’s gaze.

Instead, he sees the Scourger's hands bend into a familiar spell.

He sucks in a breath and a stab of pain jolts him awake.

The blinds in the window aren’t moving now, the sounds of the city have faded into a quiet murmur. In the room, there is now candlelight, with the candle placed on the nightstand, next to the field flowers.

Beauregard is gone. Instead, at the foot of the bed sits Caleb. He has a book in his lap and he seems to be reading, his back ramrod straight, his body angled towards the candlelight. 

Tentatively, Essek takes a deeper breath. The pain is muted again, only a soft whisper echoing in his ribcage. The bandages are still tied firmly around his body. He prods at them thoughtfully, pondering the effects that _Disintegrate_ might have on living flesh. Then he carefully examines his memories. This time, they are there. And they hold all the answers he needs.

He is interrupted by a soft, “You are awake.”

Essek forces himself to look up. He has hoped to avoid this.

“I am,” he confirms.

Silence, strangely familiar. Caleb closes the book in his lap and smooths his fingers over the cover. He seems tired, but otherwise unharmed. Essek watches him breathe in and out, still wonderfully vibrant and alive, and a strange sense of calm settles deep in his heart.

“How are you feeling?” Caleb asks, without meeting Essek’s gaze.

“Better,” Essek says honestly. “You?”

Caleb huffs a breath.

“I’m fine,” he says. He clears his throat. “I should get Jester. She told me to get her when you wake.”

“Alright,” Essek agrees easily. “Thank you.”

This moment, whatever it is, isn’t his to have. This quiet familiarity hasn’t been earned. Essek is not the man who risked his life to save Caleb’s. He is not the man who gained Beauregard’s trust.

None of this is his to have.

Caleb nods and yet he doesn’t stand up. Essek can’t help looking him over, time and time again, searching for bruises or cuts, making sure that he is whole and safe from harm. Caleb, in the meantime, continues staring at the book in his lap.

Finally, he says, “Why did you do it?”

Essek swallows. He is not the person who should be having this conversation and yet the answer comes to him so very easily. He thinks of the bright green glow of _Disintegrate_. He thinks of the once unfamiliar sight of his own blood. He thinks of their spell calligraphed carefully on expensive parchment. He thinks of understanding and connection he doubts he will ever find again.

He says, “It was the only thing to do.”

Caleb exhales. He rubs at the bridge of his nose.

Quietly, he says, “I don’t understand what it is that you want from me.”

“Nothing,” Essek rushes to reassure, unnerved by the frustration in Caleb’s voice. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Caleb looks up at him. His expression is unreadable. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Essek confirms.

Somehow, that doesn’t ease the frustration in Caleb’s eyes. He holds Essek’s gaze for a moment longer and then he looks away.

He stands up.

“In that case, thank you for… for saving my life,” he says; it sounds oddly formal.

All Essek can do is nod. He watches helplessly as Caleb walks over to the window. He fixes the blinds so that they cover the window entirely, and then he circles the bed again to reach the door. He stops in the doorway, however, with one hand on the handle, with his back to Essek.

This time his voice is softer as he says, “Get some rest, Essek.”

The tightness in Essek’s throat doesn’t lessen until the world itself begins to fade away.

*

He finds himself kneeling in his office again.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. He listens to the wind outside and to the silence of his own house. There is no knocking on the door. There are no sounds of companionship, no familiar voices and no heartbeat other than his own. There is only fear, rekindling in his chest like a flame.

It’s clear what has to be done.

Without Essek, the Mighty Nein would travel at a slower pace. The battle is likely yet to occur.

Essek could warn them, but if they are already being watched, that could prompt the attack to happen sooner. The circumstances would change, and so would the outcome, in unpredictable ways.

But there is another solution.

As Essek pushes himself to his feet, a rush of vertigo nearly sends him crumbling to the floor again. He manages to steady himself with a hand on the wall. His chest expands with a quiet echo of pain. He frowns, pressing a hand to his side, and feels his ribs push uncomfortably into his skin.

There will be time for that later.

His body feels strangely out of sync with his mind, like he is treading through deep water, but he makes his way across the room and sits down behind his desk. He rolls up the scroll with the spell, firmly ignoring the list of mishaps and side-effects noted at the bottom.

He knows the identity of the attackers. With one spell, he can discover their exact location. With another, he can teleport right there. The Mighty Nein will not walk into a trap if the trap simply isn’t there.

Essek doesn’t want to go. He is not made for bravery.

But it’s the only thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥   
>  **Edit** : Also! I've had this whole story planned and this chapter partially written before ep. 105. I've considered using a different spell, but where would be the poetic justice in that?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for following this story! I'm so happy to have you along for the ride. :') ♥ 

** III. **

*

“What the fuck,” Verin says. “What the _fuck_.”

“Yes,” Essek agrees placidly. He tilts his head back to down another healing potion and winces at the taste. “Quite.”

Verin’s room at the barracks is simple. There is a bed, a table, four chairs, three plates, two mugs. And there is Verin, in full armor, with a haphazard ponytail that would send their mother directly to her grave. And now there is Essek, covered in enough blood to earn a mild reprimand.

“Explain to me again,” Verin says, circling the room while Essek sits on the table in the middle, “why you came here instead of finding someone with literally any healing skills.”

Essek shrugs. He spins the potion bottle between his fingers and sets it in the neat row of potion bottles which he is creating perpendicularly to his left thigh. He wipes his hands on his pants. It helps neither his hands, nor his pants. He feels a little adrift. The floor beneath the table is wooden and plain. The floor beneath the table is covered with crumbled tree leaves, stained crimson with blood.

“Hey!” Verin says, suddenly very much in front of Essek. “Wake up!”

Essek blinks, trying to force the world into focus. Everything blurs around the edges like a painting dipped in river water. Essek thinks of the firelight dancing in the open clearing, casting deep shadows between the trees. He thinks of stars shining bright on unfamiliar skies.

Verin grabs Essek’s chin between his fingers and tilts his head up. He squints.

“Even your eyes are fucked up,” he says. “What the _fuck_.”

“Must you swear so much?” Essek murmurs, letting Verin move his head this way and that.

For a moment, the forest fades out of sight and Essek can once again see the room around him. He picks up one of the mugs from the table, trails his fingers over its chipped edges. There are initials on the mug which he does not recognize. There are old tea stains, too.

“I must,” Verin says, letting go of Essek’s chin. “It keeps me sane.” He plucks the mug from Essek’s hands. Then he looks Essek over again. “What _happened_ , Essek? What did you get yourself into?”

Essek sighs. It was silly, coming here.

Perhaps he should have stayed. It got quiet, near the end. The wind whispered high in the trees, the stars shone high in the sky. The forest floor was warm with long summer days.

Perhaps he should have stayed.

“It’s complicated,” he says quietly. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, winces at the sting on his lower lip. “I… I was trying to help my… my old friends.”

Verin pauses. “Old friends,” he echoes.

Essek scowls. “Yes.” He crosses his arms over his chest, feeling petulant. “I do have _friends_ , Verin.”

There is a knock on the door.

Verin looks away from Essek and walks over to the doorway. He puts the mug carefully on one of the shelves. He opens the door, exchanges a few words with the person on the other side and closes the door again. He brings a crate with supplies to the table. Without meeting Essek’s gaze, he uncorks one of the vials and dips a piece of cloth in the liquid. He catches Essek’s chin again and, without warning, presses the piece of cloth to the wound on Essek’s temple.

Essek hisses.

Verin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, should’ve thought about that _before_ you got into a fight.”

Essek makes more indignant noises, but Verin firmly ignores them. He continues cleaning Essek’s wounds with methodical, dispassionate attentiveness. He has never been squeamish. He would pick up worms with his bare hands, sit directly on the ground, dig his feet into mud and dirt. He would bleed and bruise, scuff his knees, break his bones. And then he would put himself together, all on his own, while Essek scoffed and scowled.

Now, there are laughter lines around Verin’s eyes. Their family did not put them there. He looks at home here, in his small room, with unfamiliar voices filtering through the walls. Far more at home than he ever looked in their lonely, quiet house. Far more at home than he ever looked at Essek’s side.

Verin finishes cleaning the worst of Essek’s wounds, ignoring Essek’s silence just as he ignored his previous complaining. Then he clears his throat.

“Old friends,” he repeats, without looking up. “Are they working with the Cerberus Assembly as well?”

Essek blinks.

For a moment, he thinks he must have misheard. He must have fallen asleep. He must have misunderstood Verin’s words. He must have.

But Verin calmly places the piece of cloth on the table and takes a step back. He meets Essek’s gaze. It’s only now that Essek realizes how differently Verin once looked at him, compared to the rest of the family. Now he looks at Essek as he looks at their mother, as he looks at all other members of their Den. The emotion in his eyes is not disappointment; it’s too unsurprised.

Essek tries to gather his thoughts. There must be a way out of this. He needs to focus, he needs to stop thinking of the way his ribs ache whenever he draws a breath, and he will find a way out of this.

“I…” he says and he tries to look up, but Verin’s gaze is too heavy to bear. “I…”

“Do they?” Verin repeats, unnervingly calm. _He is military_ , Essek suddenly remembers. _He is a commander_. “Essek. Do they work with the Assembly?”

“ _No_ ,” Essek snaps; pain ricochets like a lightning across his chest. He forces himself to look up and meet Verin’s unwavering gaze. “Of _course_ not, they’re not… they’re…”

Verin watches him evenly. After a moment, he prompts, “They are what?”

“ _Good_ ,” Essek grits out. “They’re _good_ , Verin. They’re kind.”

Verin raises an eyebrow, unfazed. “And they befriended _you_?”

The open disbelief in Verin’s voice is too much to bear. Essek hops off the table, wincing when his ankle nearly gives out beneath him, and stalks over to the window. The murmur of the rain outside instantly brings him back to the dark forest, the branches bowed low over the narrow path, the lights of the camp in the distance. The leaves crumbling beneath his feet. The wind rustling in the crowns of the trees.

The world outside fades in and out of focus. Essek can feel every bone and every muscle in his body.

They all seem displaced.

There is a sigh. And there are footsteps. Not hesitant, exactly, but slow.

And then Verin stands by Essek’s side.

“That was needlessly cruel,” he says. “I apologize.”

The sheer absurdity of being apologized to startles a laugh out of Essek. It cuts off quickly when he realizes that he isn’t, in fact, quite laughing. He sniffs, looks up to the ceiling, and tries not to blink.

“Why didn’t you report me, then?” he finally says, watching the rivulets of rain race down the window pane.

Verin clasps his hands behind his back; like this, he is a mirror image of their father.

He says, “Do you remember when we were kids and we played in the garden together?”

That didn’t happen often. Essek didn’t like to play, certainly not in the garden. He liked their beautiful home, its silent rooms and empty halls. He liked to read and to watch pictures in the books, and to follow their mother around the house. He didn’t like being outside and he didn’t like looking after Verin. 

“You always brought along those books of yours,” Verin continues, and there is a faint smile in the corner of his lips. “And you were always _so_ annoyed.”

Essek swallows. He remembers Verin’s carefree smile, remembers the laughter ringing loud over mother’s flower beds. He remembers the bitterness of his own thoughts, the sharpness of his own words.

Verin was a happy child, once.

Verin sighs. He looks even younger now, and Essek suddenly wants to fix his stupid ponytail and straighten his stupid armor, to make him something to eat and watch him fuss and push the food around on the plate. He wants to see Verin’s carefree smile and for once not be the reason it fades.

“I thought about reporting you,” Verin says. “To stop the war, if nothing else. I have lost people, Essek. I have lost friends.” He looks over at the chipped mug on the shelf. “But now the war has been stopped.”

Essek swallows. He thinks of the voices cutting through the night, of foreign words and foreign spells. He thinks of the silence, afterwards, settling over the clearing like heavy fog.

He says, “Does that really change anything?”

Verin laughs; it’s a hollow sound.

“No. It doesn’t,” he says. He rubs at his arms for a moment, as if to keep himself warm. “But you are my brother, Essek. I don’t want to watch you die.”

There is a small, wounded noise. Only after a moment does Essek realize that he made it himself.

Verin doesn’t look at him. He stares through the window instead. Essek has always considered himself the outcast, the black sheep of the family, but it’s suddenly clear that he was wrong. It’s Verin — made for kindness and bravery and _light_ — that has never belonged. Essek’s cruelty always fit right in.

“I’m sorry,” Essek finally manages to say; the words are heavy like gravel in his mouth. With every breath, they threaten to draw blood. “I’m sorry for making you choose.”

Verin snorts. “Are you really?” he says, but he doesn’t seem to expect a response. 

For a moment, Essek can see the loneliness etched deeply into every line of his body. Then Verin closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. When he opens his eyes again, his expression has already changed. He straightens his armor, tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear. He puts himself together while Essek watches, useless as he has always been. He can no longer see the laughter lines around Verin’s eyes.

Verin rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Enough of that,” he says quietly, as if to himself. Then he looks at Essek. “Come. Let’s find you some clean clothes. And then you can tell me about those friends of yours.”

*

The Mighty Nein returns to Rosohna, confused but unharmed. Over a series of messages, Jester tells Essek about the battlefield they found less than a mile away from their camp. Essek listens in silence, staring at nothing, while his ribs throb with phantom ache. Jester doesn’t share many details, completely omits the fact that the assassins have clearly been sent by the Assembly, but Essek is grateful that she chose to contact him at all.

The Assembly will send more Scourgers; of that Essek is certain. Their determination is obvious, even if their motivation is unclear. And Essek can’t always be there to protect the Mighty Nein. Not if he doesn’t see the attacks coming.

“ _Hallo_ , Essek.”

Essek startles out of his thoughts, nearly dropping the book he is holding. He has grown used to the quiet murmur of voices travelling through the gardens in the Firmaments, to the gentle echo of footsteps and the swish of robes. He has grown fond of watching other scholars from the corner of his eye as he reads, of feeling a faint sense of camaraderie whenever someone greets him or sits by his side to watch the water rise and fall in the nearby fountain.

He hasn’t been hiding, exactly, but he hasn’t expected to be found.

“Hello, Caleb,” he replies.

Caleb stands before him, with his hands in the pockets of his coat, with his scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. Essek looks at him and thinks of the green arrow of _Disintegrate_ racing towards his own chest. Then he thinks of flames dancing in the open clearing, the shadows cast between the trees. He thinks of blood staining the crumbled forest leaves.

He closes his book without marking the page.

“How have you been?” he asks, when Caleb doesn’t say anything else.

Caleb doesn’t reply. Instead, he gestures to the bench. “May I?”

“Of course,” Essek says. There is plenty of room, but he nonetheless shuffles further to the side. “What can I do for you?”

Caleb once again falls silent. With a snap of his fingers, he summons Frumpkin, and immediately buries his fingers in its fur. He stares at the fountain. Essek, for the lack of anything better to do, follows his gaze.

The fountain is meant to represent dawn, with sun as the centerpiece and complex, nearly translucent glass constructions representing clouds. As the water flows over them, they seem to shift in color and shape, and the sun seems to ever be rising, despite staying in place.

Caleb doesn’t look away from the fountain as he says, “During our travels, we were being followed.”

There is a gust of wind. It rustles in the crowns of the trees. Essek swallows and looks around, trying to focus on the geometric shapes of the fountain, on the steadiness of pavement beneath his feet. Perhaps it was a mistake, coming here. Then again, his own fear would follow him anywhere.

“I know,” Essek manages. “Jester told me.”

Caleb nods. “We were being followed,” he repeats, “and then we were not.”

There was firelight dancing in the clearing. There were voices, unfamiliar. And there was laughter, too. The enemies had different names, had different accents, had different stories to tell. And Essek had to listen and had to learn. And then he had to stain the forest leaves with blood.

“I know,” Essek repeats. The words echo in the hollow of his chest.

He has killed people, before. He has killed people while tucked away in the safety of his own home. He has killed people with his orders and he has killed people with his betrayal. And then he has read their names in the reports, barely a droplet of ink used to commemorate each of the fallen.

But he has not realized how much people bleed.

And people _bleed_. They bleed and call out to each other in vain. They bleed and _die_.

Essek’s war has killed people. It has made them bleed. His war has killed Verin’s soldiers. Verin’s _friends_.

Caleb clears his throat. “Something…” He pauses. “Something took them out before they could attack us.”

Essek thought he understood fear. He thought he understood war. He thought he knew what it’s like to stand at a battlefield, to fight in the name of convictions, to harm faceless enemies that swarm around like insects, like a nameless mass.

He thought he understood until he tasted blood in his own mouth. He thought he understood until there were spells flying around, blades cutting across skin. He thought he understood until the forest leaves were stained with blood, until the silence once again fell over the clearing like a fog.

There is nothing easy about fighting. There is nothing easy about death.

“Something…?” he echoes.

Caleb nods, but he doesn’t elaborate. He stares into the distance again, with Frumpkin still in his lap. The cat watches Essek in silence, its gaze flicking over Essek’s trembling hands.

Then Caleb sighs. Evenly, he says, “Did you know the Assembly is involved with the Chained Oblivion? Did you know they would go after us?”

Hearing the question is like plummeting into freezing water.

Essek closes his eyes. Distantly, he thinks of the battles that keep warping together in his mind. He thinks of the quiet clearing in the middle of the forest. He thinks of the bright green glow of _Disintegrate_. He thinks of the Mighty Nein fighting by his side. He thinks of standing alone before the door of Verin’s room.

“I didn’t, Caleb,” he says quietly. He opens his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

He can feel Caleb’s watchful gaze, but he can’t quite meet his eyes. He stares at the fountain instead, at the flower beds surrounding it. Abruptly, he misses the sound of Verin’s laughter.

Caleb exhales. With a snap of his fingers, he sends Frumpkin away.

He says, “I want to believe you, Essek.”

Essek nods mechanically. The garden is silent. It’s as silent as Essek’s home, as silent as his mother’s gardens, as silent as Essek has always wanted his life to be. He has his wish, now.

He concludes, “But you don’t.”

Caleb huffs a breath. He runs a hand down his face and slams it on the bench. It’s uncharacteristic for his frustration to be so plain to see. 

“I don’t know,” he snaps. His hands are trembling, now. “I don’t know what I believe. I don’t — we don’t trust easily. I have to — I need to think. I need to _think_. And there is never any time, we’re always — we’re always rushing, and I can’t — I need things to just — to just stop. I need _time_.”

Essek looks back at him, shocked into silence. For a moment, he forgets all about the forest clearing. He forgets the narrow path between the trees. He forgets the silence, afterwards. All he wants to do is reach out and brush Caleb’s hair behind his ear, hold his hands until they no longer tremble, stop the world in its tracks until Caleb is ready to face it again.

But it’s not his place. It will never be his place.

“Take the time, then,” he says quietly. As Caleb glances up, Essek once again thinks of the wind singing high in the trees, of the glimmer of foreign skies. He has been alone before. He can be alone again. “If it’s time you need, then take the time, Caleb.”

Slowly, he moves to his feet. His wounds have healed and his bruises have faded away, leaving nothing but a couple of stubborn scars, but the strange ache in his ribs remains and his ankle doesn’t quite want to bear his weight. He sways a little on his feet, but then there is a touch on his arm, steading him again.

Essek blinks. Caleb lets go of his arm as quickly as he caught it. There is a frown on his face, now.

“Are you alright?” he asks, looking Essek over. His frown deepens.

“Of course,” Essek lies easily. He steps back. “Give my love to your friends, Caleb.”

“I will,” Caleb replies. “ _Auf Wiedersehen_ , Essek.” He pauses. “It means, until we meet again.”

Essek swallows. Before he teleports away, he says, “Until we meet again.”

*

The solution is simple. If the Mighty Nein suspects him of still working with the Assembly, there must be a timeline in which he does. There must be a timeline in which he still stands on the wrong side. There must be a timeline in which that choice grants him insight and information he himself no longer has.

It’s an easy choice.

There is no more knowledge he can learn from the books. The Assembly no longer trusts him enough to share their motivations, if they even trusted him in the first place. And Essek needs to make sure that the Mighty Nein is safe. He needs to understand why the Assembly is hunting them down. He needs to understand where they stand in regards to the Chained Oblivion. Otherwise, it has all been for nothing.

It’s an easy choice.

This time, Essek makes preparations. He composes notes on the spell and on the timelines he visited, just in case the Mighty Nein can make use of them if he doesn’t return. He spends hours trying to recall all the details, records even those that seem irrelevant, and leaves it all on his desk.

A part of him hopes to be stopped. He hopes that someone reaches out to him and asks if he is alright. He hopes for Jester’s voice in his head, for Verin’s laughter, even for another interrogation with Beauregard.

But no one comes.

There is only Essek and his silent, empty home. There are only the components he gathers carefully as he kneels on the floor. There is only his heart beating quietly in his chest, while his ribs throb with phantom ache.

And that’s alright. He has done harm, all on his own.

It’s fitting to fix it that way.

*

When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of dancing lights floating beneath the night sky. His body feels languid and warm. He is sitting sideways in a large armchair and there is a woven blanket draped over his legs. The sky is familiar, bright with stars.

He looks to the side and finds Caleb sitting in the other armchair, mirroring Essek’s position. There is a book in his lap and he seems to be reading. He flicks his wrist from time to time to send the globules of light floating around. The tension he usually carries in his shoulders is absent. His feet are bare.

Watching him feels like sacrilege.

Essek tries to tear his gaze away. Instead, he finds the blue of Caleb’s eyes.

Caleb is watching him quietly, calmly. Not only does he not look away when Essek meets his gaze; he raises an eyebrow in a challenge and a faint smile curls in the corner of his lips. Strands of hair have slipped out of his hair tie and are now framing his face like flares of fire. Abruptly, Essek realizes that he knows exactly how soft they would be beneath his fingers.

_Oh_.

They have kissed, in this world. They have fallen asleep together, dressed and undressed together, laughed and smiled together. They have held each other, shared quiet words and trembling breaths. They have touched and promised and _confessed_.

“Essek?” Caleb says. “Are you alright?”

And in this world, Essek is still working with the Cerberus Assembly. And the Mighty Nein does not know.

“ _No_ ,” Essek breathes. “No, no, _no_.”

He can’t be here. He can’t stay here. He can’t —

He kicks the blanket away, pushes himself to his feet. He sways and a hand on his arm instantly steadies him; only then he realizes that Caleb has moved as well. His hold on Essek’s arm is firm.

“ _Essek_ ,” he repeats. “What’s wrong?”

This Essek knows exactly how Caleb feels about the Assembly.

“ _Hey_ ,” Caleb says in Undercommon, and his other hand brushes Essek’s hair back in a gesture of simple, casual affection. “Talk to me.”

But Essek can’t talk. He looks at Caleb and thinks of the way Caleb smiled at him after they designed the Transmogrification Spell together. He thinks of the way Beauregard laughed with him and made jokes at his expense. He thinks of the way Jester hugged him a little too tight.

It’s not a matter of love; it’s a matter of trust.

Caleb trusted him. The Mighty Nein _trusted_ him.

And for the first time, Essek understands the magnitude of his own betrayal.

“I…” he says. His voice cracks. “I’m sorry, I need a moment.”

Caleb’s gaze flicks over his face again. “Essek —”

“I’ll explain later,” he says, carefully extracting his arm from Caleb’s hold.

He sways again as he steps back, but to his credit, Caleb doesn’t reach out for him again. He only watches Essek, his forehead creased with concern, as Essek steps even further back, into the shadows of the house.

It’s the Xhorhaus. Of course it is. And it’s no longer just the Mighty Nein’s. It’s _theirs_ , now. It’s Essek’s, too.

There is golden light streaming through the windows, but other than that, the house is quiet and it is dark. Faint shadows wander across the walls and floors, mirroring Caleb’s dancing lights. Frumpkin hops off the table and strolls across the room, brushing past Essek’s ankles on his way outside.

As if held captive by a spell, Essek wanders into the kitchen and trails his fingers over the countertops. Even though he isn’t trying to reach for any memories, they come to him anyway. Warm candlelight filling the room, always just a little too bright. Familiar laughter trailing through the halls. A touch on his shoulder, on the small of his back. Hands brushing while passing plates and mugs. Quiet hours of the evening, feet tucked together under a shared blanket. A kiss pressed to his temple, a book taken from his lap, a candle extinguished, a hand tugging him to his feet.

Essek wanders across the empty kitchen and towards the empty study, and then he stops again, gaze fixed on his own books stacked neatly on the once empty shelves, right by unfamiliar tomes he nonetheless remembers holding in his hands. He remembers long discussions, too, stretching far into the night. He remembers spells calligraphed with shared ink. He remembers magic filling the room like diamond dust.

And he remembers the smile on Caleb’s lips, remembers catching his gaze and holding it while time became irrelevant and gravity became inescapable. He remembers laughter, cut off. He remembers amusement and affection dancing in familiar eyes, he remembers hands grasping and holding. He remembers slipping his fingers into Caleb’s hair, remembers the answering touch on his hips or on the small of his back.

He remembers the familiar darkness of their room, the warmth of skin against skin, the words exchanged between shared breaths, the affection blooming like flowers in his chest.

He blinks. The room is empty before him. The bed is neatly made. There is a candle on one side, extinguished now.

On the other side, there is a plain envelope, with Essek’s name calligraphed on top.

For a while, Essek can do nothing but stare.

There is only silence, thick like a fog. He stares at the bed again, remembers fingers tangled with his own, remembers dreaming of wonderful things, remembers waking up to warm touch and warmer words.

How _dare_ he.

He steps into the room and picks up the letter from the Assembly. Distantly, he recalls his goal here. Less distantly, there is rage growing in his chest like a storm, building up like a hurricane. The envelope would continue to sit here forever, unopened and untouched. Caleb would never even ask. It’s not a matter of love. It’s a matter of trust.

“Essek?”

Caleb is standing in the doorway. His forehead is still creased with concern. He did not light a single candle on his way here, and even now he watches Essek in half-darkness, putting himself on uneven ground.

With a snap of his fingers, Essek summons light.

Caleb blinks when the candles catch fire, but he doesn’t relax in the warm glow they provide. Instead, he continues watching Essek. His feet are still bare.

For a moment, Essek simply stands there, with the envelope still in his hands. He watches Caleb and thinks of how far he had to come to be able to stand here, to follow despite being asked to stay. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up and Essek can see each and every single one of his scars, and though the other Essek knows their origin well, he himself pushes the unearned knowledge away. A part of him wants to go to the other room and give Caleb his spell book, wants to bring him his coat and his boots. He desperately wants him to look less easy to harm.

“Essek,” Caleb repeats. “What’s wrong?”

_I love you, too,_ Caleb told Essek, once, between trembling breaths, in this very room. _I trust you,_ he told Essek, many times before and many times after that.

The storm in Essek’s chest has now become a tempest.

He moves past Caleb into the study again and summons parchment from his pocket dimension. Then he summons a pen and ink. And then he begins to write. It’s easy, surprisingly so. The words are pouring out of him like a river breaking through a dam. The fury in his heart becomes steady like a heartbeat, bright like a flame.

He rolls the parchment up. Caleb is still watching him from the doorway of the bedroom. He pauses when Essek hands him the scroll.

“What is this?” he asks.

“Please wait for Beauregard to return before you read this,” Essek says. “If you wish to find me afterwards, I will be in the garden.” He pauses. “Bring Beauregard with you.”

Caleb frowns. Essek expects questions, expects wariness and distrust.

Instead, Caleb simply says, “ _Ja_ , alright.”

The storm passes, as sudden as it came. There is only the devastation left in its wake. Essek nods, turning around to leave, but then Caleb catches his hand. His thumb brushes gently over Essek’s knuckles.

“Whatever it is,” he says, “it’ll be alright.”

“Yes,” Essek agrees. “It will be, now.”

He squeezes Caleb’s hand. Then he lets go, turns around, and leaves the room.

*

It’s quiet in the garden as well.

Caleb’s dancing lights are still floating in the air. The tree, as always, is lit up as well. Essek once again looks at the twin armchairs. Frumpkin has curled up in Essek’s woven blanket and is purring loudly, his eyes closed. Essek walks past the armchairs and sits on the edge of the pavement instead, facing towards the garden. Absently, he reads through the letter from the Assembly. Then he focuses on the memories he has of their cooperation. They contain less useful information than he has hoped, but perhaps it will be enough to find another thread to follow.

Having memorized the information, he leaves the letter on the table between the armchairs. Then he walks to the middle of the garden and summons his spell book.

He doesn’t know when he will be dragged back to his timeline. The spell is barely controllable as it is. The tether to his own timeline is unstable, weakening and strengthening in turn. And this Essek is a powerful wizard. A powerful wizard who should not be trusted with anything, least of all with Caleb’s safety.

Essek closes his eyes, focuses, and begins to cast. He bends gravity, stops and slows down time, casts all his shielding spells and then lets their protection fade away. It’s both terrifying and strangely calming to use magic in such a manner, to feel it drain away with every spell.

He hears the moment the Mighty Nein returns, the voices and laughter in the corridor. The weight in his chest grows heavier in response, but he doesn’t stop casting. He weaves threads of gravity through the air, bending darkness and light, until he no longer can move a single object around him. Then he lets his hands fall to his sides. The wind whispers in the crown of the single tree. There are crumbled leaves beneath Essek’s feet. Soon, they might just be stained with blood.

The door opens.

Slowly, Essek turns around. Caleb is standing in the doorway. He is wearing his coat, now. He is wearing his boots, too. His expression is blank.

“Is it true?” he says quietly. In the silence hanging heavy in the space between them, the words ring loud and clear. “Essek?”

Beauregard steps out of the house as well, still reading the letter. She frowns, glances up to Caleb. Then, very slowly, her gaze travels over to Essek. The fury building in her eyes is soothing in its familiarity.

_Here comes the reckoning,_ Essek thinks, and relief settles deep in his heart.

He says, “It’s true.”

“You asshole,” Beauregard snarls. She pushes past Caleb, crumbling the letter in her hands. She drops it to the ground. Caleb’s gaze follows. He doesn’t look up again.

“You fucking asshole,” Beauregard repeats and she charges towards Essek.

With a start, Essek realizes that there are tears in her eyes.

*

The blow he expects never comes.

Instead, he finds himself kneeling in his office again. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest. He breathes in and breathes out. His ribs ache, again. The floor beneath his knees is steady and clean. The floor beneath his knees is covered in crumbled leaves, warm with long summer days, warmer with drying blood.

There is wind rustling in the crowns of foreign trees. There is wind howling in the corridors of his empty home. When he reaches to his face, his cheeks are wet with tears. When he wipes his mouth, his jaw aches with a punishment that did not come.

He sways a little as he staggers to his feet.

There is no one to catch him, but he does not fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Thank you for your patience. I've struggled with this chapter _a lot_ , so I'm especially grateful for all your kind comments. Thank you. :') ♥

** IV. **

*

There is no timeline in which he went against the Assembly and lived to tell the tale.

The spell would send him to his knees, had he not already been kneeling. Instead, for a brief moment between casting and letting go, he gets to experience _nonexistence_. For a moment, his body is too large for the world in which it doesn’t belong. For a moment, the very structure of his bones is collapsing inwards, his ribcage crumbling like a house of cards, his lungs deflating like a punctured balloon.

He tries to reach out to his own timeline, but the timeline in which he does not belong refuses him even the ability to let it go.

He is adrift. There is silence, loud. There is darkness, bright.

And then there is a knock on the door and Essek thinks, _It could be the Mighty Nein_.

The thought is a match struck in darkness, a sudden flicker of flame in a starless night. Essek’s chest expands with a sharp inhale. His heart beats once, twice. His ribcage rearranges itself to allow another breath.

And he finds himself kneeling in his office again.

According to the clock in the corner of the room, only a few minutes have passed. It seemed longer than that. Slowly, Essek pushes himself to his feet. His limbs are sluggish, uncoordinated. A shiver ripples through his body like a current of electricity. His mouth is dry. His hands are cold with sweat. The golden dust, now burnt and black, has settled on his clothes like flecks of volcanic ash. His chest aches with every careful breath.

There is a knock on the door again.

Essek makes his way downstairs, trying to regain his composure. He steadies himself, straightens his back, raises his chin. He tugs the door open with a wordless spell.

And he blinks.

On the other side of the door is Caleb. He looks better today than he did the last time Essek saw him. The shadows beneath his eyes are fainter. His hair is tied neatly, his clothes are mended and clean. He looks like he has had a good night’s sleep and perhaps even a warm meal or two.

“Hello, Essek,” Caleb says. “I brought back the map.”

His hands are tucked into the pockets of his coat, his shoulders are relaxed. He is quite obviously not holding a wall map. 

Essek stares at him. “You did?”

Caleb’s lips quirk at the corners. On the palm of his hand, he presents an amber gem.

He says, “It’s here.”

He looks up from the gem, clearly pleased with himself. His eyes are bright. Essek thinks of watching those eyes open early in the morning, thinks of the flutter of eyelashes against freckled skin, thinks of the soft smile dancing in the corner of those lips. And he thinks of worlds other than his own, worlds that are so very different — and yet, not different at all.

After all, there is no timeline in which he did not betray the Mighty Nein.

A gust of wind moves through the yard, sending tree leaves into a rustling dance. The amber gem still rests on the palm of Caleb’s outstretched hand. It glimmers softly in the starlight.

Caleb clears his throat and withdraws his hand, sliding it into the pocket of his coat again.

He says, “…May I come in?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Essek says, startling out of his thoughts. He steps back to let Caleb through the doorway. “My apologies.” 

They step into the living room. Essek considers offering tea, then remembers he doesn’t have any.

The silence grows heavy and then it grows uncomfortable. One of Caleb’s hands reaches to the other, to scratch at the scars hidden beneath layers and layers of clothes. They still hurt, Essek has recently learned. Touch helps, sometimes. Warmth helps, too. Scratching does not help at all.

Essek doesn’t mean to move. He cannot for the life of him remember making the decision to reach out. But he catches Caleb’s wrist all the same.

There is a pause.

Caleb blinks down at Essek’s hand, frozen in place. Then, very slowly, he looks up and meets Essek’s gaze. There is a frown on his face, his eyes a troubled sea. And yet he does not pull his hand away from Essek’s hold. And Essek does not let go.

The silence is heavy with held breaths.

Then Caleb exhales gradually. Instead of stepping back, he reaches out with his other hand and, very slowly, pulls up the sleeve of his coat and shirt, exposing the array of scars that Essek has only seen in passing.

Quietly, he says, “Trent Ikithon did this.” He looks away, but he leaves his wrist in Essek’s hold. His gaze wanders around the room, without setting on anything in particular. “Not just to me. To others, too.”

Essek has known this already. There is no reason for the flare of anger in his chest, for the surge of magic urging him to retaliate and, unfamiliarly, to protect.

Caleb casts him a glance. “That upsets you,” he observes. 

“Of course it does,” Essek says. “How could it not?”

Caleb doesn’t reply. He moves away, but he does so unhurriedly, slipping his hand out of Essek’s hold. He rolls down the sleeve of his shirt and buttons it, then pulls down the sleeve of his coat. His movements are calm and precise. He fishes out the amber gem from his pocket again and mutters a foreign word under his breath. The map appears in his hands, folded and bound with a ribbon. Essek accepts it wordlessly.

Caleb slips the amber gem into the pocket of his coat again.

He says, “You should have dinner with us tonight.”

Essek blinks at him. He sets the map aside and rubs at his jaw. The ache he continuously expects to feel still isn’t there. He thinks of the fury in Beauregard’s eyes. He imagines the angry curl of Veth’s mouth. He remembers the sadness in Jester’s gaze. He has to clear his throat several times before he can speak again and even then, he finds no words to say.

“I…”

Caleb doesn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he reaches out carefully and brushes a fleck of burnt golden dust off Essek’s sleeve.

“It won’t be easy,” he says, as if Essek has voiced his thoughts out loud. “But it will be less difficult than you imagine.”

It’s impossible to argue with him. Not just because he is close enough that Essek can see the sun-kissed freckles on his skin. Not just because his proximity makes Essek’s thoughts heavy and sluggish with fondness and warmth. Mostly because he knows that Caleb has had the same arguments with himself, many times. And he has grown good at winning them.

“Alright,” Essek says. “Alright.”

*

It isn’t easy. But it is less difficult than Essek has imagined.

“Essek!” Jester exclaims, right after they finish eating dinner. She drops her fork to her plate. “Did you bring pastries this time?”

Essek has, as a matter of fact, brought pastries. The language of gifts and favors is a language he knows well. The trip to Uthodurn cost him most of his power for the day, but it’s worth it when he reaches to his pocket dimension and pulls out an elegant paper box.

“Here,” he says, pushing it across the table to Jester. “I hope they are to your liking.”

Jester leans over the table eagerly as she pushes the lid open. She gasps.

“You _guys_! These are the black moss cupcakes I’ve told you about! These are my favorite! _Essek_! How did you know?”

Essek pauses. It’s a good question. He did not think that through. Before he can offer a reply, though, Beauregard takes one of the cupcakes and inspects it thoughtfully.

“It takes more than some pastries to win us over, mate,” she says. She takes a bite.

“Aw, Beau!” Jester exclaims. She shoves an entire cupcake into her mouth and swallows with effort. “But these are the best!”

Yasha smiles warmly as she picks up one of the cupcakes and examines the frosting.

“I didn’t realize you liked pastries, Beau,” she comments quietly and takes a careful bite.

“I don’t really,” Beauregard replies, finishing the cupcake and brushing the crumbs off her hands. “But got to check if these aren’t poisoned, yeah?”

Essek freezes in his seat. His cautious smile slips off his face.

By his side, Caleb tenses. “Beauregard,” he says, an edge to his voice that Essek did not expect.

“ _Caleb_ ,” she parries in the same tone, without glancing at him. She considers Essek for a moment. Then she shrugs. “You need a thicker skin to survive here, Thelyss.”

Essek swallows. “I don’t want to hurt any of you,” he says. “I wouldn’t, I…”

Unexpectedly, it’s Fjord who speaks up. “We know. We just rarely have the moral high ground over anyone.”

Caduceus smiles serenely. “Indeed. It gets to our heads a little.”

Essek sucks in a breath. To his surprise, all Beauregard does is roll her eyes good-naturedly.

“Fine, fine,” she says. “You like the Drow, we get it.” She turns to Essek. “I know you wouldn’t poison us, you idiot. But I still trust you only as far as I could throw you.”

Essek bites his lip. Tentatively, he says, “Well, I imagine you could throw me fairly far.”

Beauregard grins at that. Before turning to Jester, she knocks her wineglass against Essek’s, which he is yet to touch.

She says, “True.”

Essek’s shoulders slump with the sudden release of tension. He reaches for his glass, only to nearly knock it over when there is a light touch on his wrist. He glances up and finds Caleb’s gaze. Caleb doesn’t say anything and he removes his hand quickly enough for no one else to notice the gesture, but the touch still sends a surge of warmth through Essek’s body.

He begins to smile — and then the smile freezes on his lips.

_Is it true?_ Caleb has asked, in the world not so different from Essek’s own. _Essek?_

Essek’s body grows cold. The room is suddenly too warm, too bright. The ghost of touch on his wrist is seared into his skin like a new brand. His friends are too understanding, too kind. 

Verin has said, _And they befriended_ you _?_

Slowly, Essek pushes himself to his feet. He mutters an excuse and steps away from the table.

The small garden in the back of the house is empty and neglected. There are no dancing lights floating beneath the night sky. There are no armchairs sitting by the door. There are, however, tree leaves covering the ground. There is the tree far above. There are voices and laughter filtering from the inside. And there is candlelight streaming through the windows and onto the grass.

Essek steps away from the pockets of light. He sits at the edge of the pavement instead, staring into the dark. Once again, he lets himself think of his failed spell. There is no timeline in which he went against the Assembly and survived. It logically follows that he will not survive going against the Assembly in this world, either.

Strange, to have your path laid out before you so clearly.

“What are you doing here, creeping in the shadows? The house not villain-y enough for you?”

The space by Essek’s side was empty just a moment ago. Now Veth is sitting there, with her legs outstretched, leaning back on her elbows, like she has been there all along.

Her words should sting, but Essek is so grateful to be pulled out of his thoughts that he manages a small smile.

He says, “It’s hard to brood around so much cat hair.”

To his surprise, Veth snorts a laugh.

“God, it’s the worst!” she says. “You’d think he would do something about that, being a wizard and all!”

Essek’s smile widens. “He doesn’t know the _Prestidigitation Spell_.”

Veth hums thoughtfully. “Oh, yeah, that tracks. That tracks big time.”

They fall silent for a moment. It’s strangely companionable. Essek watches Veth from the corner of his eye. For a while, she seems content to look into the darkness as well, toying with her button necklace and tapping out a strange rhythm with one of her heavy, yellow boots.

Then she says, “My husband and son are well. Thank you for asking.”

Essek winces, abruptly dragged back to discomfort.

He says, “I did not think any inquiries on my part would be welcome.”

Veth slants him a look. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

Her gaze is expectant.

Essek bites his lip. “Veth,” he says carefully, “how are your husband and son?”

“None of your fucking business,” Veth replies, without missing a beat. She lets him stew in silence for a long moment before she adds, “But if you must know, they are better. They have an apartment, now. Yeza barely has nightmares anymore. Luc is… good, I think.”

Essek swallows tightly. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Veth nods sharply in response. She stands up, smooths down her dress. Then she levels Essek with a heavy look.

“You are on thin ice, Essek Thelyss,” she tells him. “Don’t hurt anyone else I love.”

“I won’t,” Essek promises.

Veth narrows her eyes at him. “You know who I’m talking about.”

Essek does know. “I _won’t_ ,” he repeats, his voice strained. “I won’t, Veth.”

She watches him for a moment longer. Then she nods. “Good.”

The door behind them opens with a quiet creak. Essek looks over his shoulder to see Beauregard lean against the doorframe.

“Huh,” she says. “Forgot we have a backyard.” She looks around. “We could put some armchairs here.”

Essek blinks at her just as Veth smacks him on the shoulder and disappears inside the house.

He gets up to follow, straightening his clothes. When he looks up, Beauregard is watching him like a hawk.

“What’s up with you?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, her gaze trailing over his body.

Essek huffs. “Excuse me?”

“Your balance is fucked up,” Beauregard observes. “And you’re favoring your left side. And you’re breathing funny, now that I think about it.”

Essek draws himself up to his full height, which is not impressive at all, and schools his expression into something he hopes resembles composure. He barely resists the urge to start floating.

“It’s inconsequential,” he says. “There is, however, something I _would_ like to discuss with you.”

Beauregard raises an eyebrow, but she allows the deflection. “Oh?”

Essek reaches to his pocket dimension again. Out of it, he takes the letters he has received from the Assembly so far.

“Here,” he says, offering the letters to Beauregard. “I have been trying to use my… ties to the Assembly to gather information. I may have… overestimated my investigative skills. Perhaps you can find something I’ve missed.”

Beauregard frowns, looking quickly through the envelopes. There aren’t that many; the Assembly is not keen on corresponding with Essek at all, now that they have what they wanted all along.

Beauregard looks up at him.

“If I brought these letters to the Bright Queen,” she says, “you would be executed right away.” When Essek simply nods in response, she raises an eyebrow. “And you’re just giving them to me.”

“Yes,” Essek says. “Do with them as you will.”

For a long moment, Beauregard doesn’t pay attention to the letters at all. She studies Essek instead. Then she reaches out and, before Essek can move a muscle, she punches him in the shoulder a little too hard. And she smiles.

“Get back inside, you idiot,” she says. “It’s cold as fuck.”

It’s not cold at all. They both stand in silence for a moment, contemplating the fact. A warm gust of wind sends the scattered tree leaves into a graceful swirl before they settle on the ground again. In the glow of the candlelight, they seem painted gold rather than stained with blood.

Essek says, “I should probably go home.”

Beauregard rolls her eyes. “Fine, be like that. Me? I’m getting more wine.”

The voices grow louder as they walk into the house. The laughter grows louder, too. The golden glow of candlelight streams from the dining room and the kitchen to the corridor. There are faint shadows wandering across the walls and floors. Essek stops in the doorway for just a moment, while Beauregard moves past him towards the kitchen. She uncorks a bottle of wine with her teeth and takes a swig straight out of it, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. When Essek grimaces, she snorts a laugh.

The Mighty Nein is no longer sitting at the table. In fact, there no longer is a table to sit at. It has been moved all the way to the wall and the chairs are nowhere to be seen. Perched on the edge of the table are Caduceus and Fjord. Caduceus has somehow managed to salvage his cup of tea. Fjord has not. Yasha stands by the window with her strange harp, playing a lively melody, while Veth taps her boots to the rhythm and provides absurd lyrics from time to time.

And in the middle of the room, Caleb is teaching Jester how to dance.

If Essek were to imagine Caleb dancing, he would imagine him in one of the formal, austere ballroom dances that the Empire seems to prefer. But the dance that he is teaching to Jester is neither formal, nor austere. It’s lively and cheerful and strange. And Caleb is smiling, too. The smile dances in his eyes more than it does on his lips, but he is smiling nonetheless. And Jester is laughing, happy and bright, whether she succeeds in completing a set of steps or fails entirely and has to be caught in Caleb’s arms.

Essek leans against the doorframe and watches them all for a moment. He listens to the soft murmur of Caduceus’s voice and the quiet rumble of Fjord’s laughter. He watches the heels of Veth’s yellow boots as they tap out the rhythm of the song. He follows the graceful dance of Yasha’s fingers on the strings of her harp. He watches the ribbons of Jester’s dress as she swirls in a pirouette. And from the corner of his eye, he studies Caleb for a little while, the lightness in his step, the brightness in his eyes.

Then he catches Beauregard’s gaze. She raises a bottle to him and pats the front of her coat, where the letters are hidden. She pretends to zip up her mouth and throw out the key. Then, for balance perhaps, she points to Caleb, looks to Essek, and pretends to slit her throat.

And then she smiles.

Essek stares at her for a moment, at a loss for both words and gestures alike.

Then he simply turns around.

In the corridor, he puts on his mantle, smoothing out the wrinkles, and carefully opens the door, willing the doorbell to stay still. Before he can close the door, though, someone catches the handle on the other side.

It’s Caleb. Of course it is.

He slips out of the house and closes the door, plunging them both into the sleepy silence of empty streets in the middle of the night. 

His cheeks are flushed from exertion. His hair is tangled in a messy knot. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up. His coat is missing. One of his boots is partially unlaced.

For just a moment, he looks happy and carefree and devastatingly young.

“Essek,” he says, and he is still a little out of breath. “You did well today.”

Essek clears his throat, looks at the pavement beneath their feet.

“It wasn’t as difficult as I’ve imagined,” he says quietly. “You were right in that regard. In most regards, really.”

“Not in all of them, though,” Caleb says. His expression grows serious. He takes a step closer, rubs a little at his forearms, tries to catch Essek’s gaze. “Not when I accused you of working with the Assembly again.”

Essek shrugs, hides his hands in the folds of his mantle. “It was a reasonable assumption to make.”

Caleb huffs a breath. “It wasn’t reasonable at all,” he says. “I… I rarely think clearly when it comes to the Assembly. But I…” He pauses. “I do believe you can change. I do believe that.”

Essek finally forces himself to look up. There is something akin to hope in Caleb’s eyes. It’s dangerously misplaced.

Essek sighs. “People don’t change, Caleb,” he says, strangely irritated. “Even now I don’t really… I don’t really regret betraying my country. It did little to earn my loyalty. And the damage the war caused… it’s too abstract to comprehend. It’s too… too _much_ to comprehend. Maybe one day I’ll understand it fully. Maybe then I’ll regret it as you want me to. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Caleb watches him for a moment, thoughtful. Then he says, “Bullshit.”

Essek frowns. “Excuse me?”

“All people _do_ is change,” Caleb says, taking a step forward again, and the fierceness of conviction in his eyes is startling. “All people do is grow and transform and _become_. The world itself is change, Essek. Nothing stays the same. Nothing. No one. Not you. Not me.”

Essek stares at him, his mouth a little dry. With effort, he manages a weak smile.

He says, “An appropriate sentiment for a transmutationist, I suppose.”

“It is,” Caleb replies seriously. He continues to hold Essek’s gaze. “But you are the one who dabbles in possibility, Essek Thelyss. Tell me, is there a world in which we only have one path to tread? In which there are no crossroads and no choices to make?”

And it’s in that moment that Essek finally _understands_.

He will not take down the Cerberus Assembly, in this timeline or in any other. It has never been his story in the first place. This doesn’t end with him winning over the Mighty Nein. It certainly doesn’t end with him winning over Caleb. All he can be is a step along the way. All he can offer is a helping hand, a single stroke of a brush in what is shaping up to be quite a masterpiece.

He will not take down the Cerberus Assembly.

The Mighty Nein will.

He swallows. “I have to go,” he says. He bites his lip, recalls the Zemnian phrase. It catches a little in his throat, even though he does not intend for it to be a lie. “ _Auf… Auf Wiedersehen,_ Caleb.”

Caleb smiles at him, indulgent and warm.

He says, “Until we meet again, Essek.”

*

The spell doesn’t fail him this time.

Instead, his consciousness is dragged out of his body, and he finds himself sitting before a wooden desk.

The office is unfamiliar. There is a fireplace, crackling with brightness and heat. There are books stacked neatly on numerous shelves. There are tall windows covered with heavy blinds.

And behind the desk sits a man.

Essek blinks. He would recognize those blue eyes anywhere, even hidden behind thick glasses as they are. Even set in a face that is aged beyond Caleb’s years. Even framed by silver-grey hair.

For a moment, Essek can do nothing but stare. His spell allows him to travel between parallel points in different timelines. It doesn’t allow him to see the future or the past. In every timeline he is capable of accessing, Caleb should be the exact same age he is in Essek’s world.

“Shadowhand?” Caleb prompts, in a voice that has gentled with time. He is watching Essek patiently, warmly. “Are you alright?”

_Yes, Archmage Widogast_ , Essek should reply. Instead, like a guileless child, he says, “Caleb…?”

There is a pause.

Then Caleb moves, so fast that Essek’s mind struggles to comprehend it, and before he can even think of putting up a defense, he finds himself bound with one of his own spells, and Caleb is leaning over the desk, his hands resting flatly on top. 

In a voice that is not gentle at all, he snaps, “Who are you?”

The spell Essek is bound with doesn’t allow him to move a muscle. That is familiar. Unfamiliar is the way it pulls at his thoughts, unraveling them like a ball of yarn, forcing words out of his mouth. 

“I’m Essek,” he says. He swallows uncomfortably. “Friend… friend of the Mighty Nein.”

There are surnames and titles to offer. The spell doesn’t allow him to add a single one.

“The Mighty Nein,” Caleb echoes. “How…?”

Essek doesn’t understand the question, but the unfamiliar magic still drags the words out of his mouth. 

“There is a spell I have designed,” he says. “It allows my consciousness to travel between different timelines.”

For a moment, there is silence. Caleb studies him quietly, as if searching for a lie. 

Then he says, “You never mentioned such a spell to me.”

Essek frowns. In this timeline, he only knows Caleb under his official title. While they share their research, now, they would have no reason to trade any personal spells.

Essek says, “You are not from this timeline, either."

Heavily, Caleb sits behind the desk again. With a flick of his wrist, he dispels the binding spell. Then he leans back in his armchair, staring off to the side. Candlelight glimmers in the lenses of his glasses. 

He says, “No, I’m not.”

With another flick of his hand, he first locks the door behind Essek’s back and then dispels the illusion set over his own features. His hair is, once again, the color of open flame, though there are threads of silver here and there. He takes off his glasses and rubs at his face. He doesn’t put on the glasses again.

Essek stares at him, at a loss for words. None of this make sense. In this world, there is no Mighty Nein. Caleb is alone here, without his friends. And he is older by at least fifteen years.

Trent Ikithon recruits his Scourgers when they are still children. And in this timeline, Trent Ikithon was executed fifteen years ago, alongside several other members of the Assembly. And his place has been taken by Archmage Widogast, whose political insight and diplomatic skill have been crucial to forging the lasting peace between the Empire and the Dynasty and who is now helming a shared research into the Luxon Beacons.

Essek says, “Oh, Gods.”

Caleb huffs a breath. He keeps rubbing at the bridge of his nose, avoiding Essek’s gaze.

“Well,” he says, a faint hint of bitter amusement in his voice, “you did ask me to show you something impressive.”

He looks up. There is weariness in his eyes that ages him far more than any illusion ever could.

“You’ve traveled through _time_ ,” Essek says, unable to do anything but speak his thoughts out loud in hopes of making some sense of them. “You’ve traveled through time and you took down the Assembly before it could cause you harm.”

“Before it could cause _us_ harm,” Caleb corrects softly. He does meet Essek’s gaze this time. “They are all here, you know. The Nein. They work under a different name, of course. They met under different circumstances. But they are all well. They are all alive.”

Essek swallows through the unbearable tightness in his throat. “And you?”

Caleb smiles faintly.

“Bren is fine as well. He has graduated the Academy and married the love of his life.” Caleb clears his throat, looks to the ceiling. “His parents are very proud.”

Essek stares. His heart is beating wildly in his chest. “And me?”

Caleb looks aside. “You are my favorite research partner, of course,” he says. “Perhaps a friend, someday.”

“And I never stole the Beacons,” Essek says. His breath catches in his throat. “ _You_. You’ve stopped me before I could do that. You’ve convinced the Bright Queen to let us research the Beacons together. You’ve…” He pauses. “You’ve saved my life.”

Caleb shrugs, picking at the sleeves of his tunic. “I’ve only offered what someone should have offered you a long time ago. A helping hand.”

“But…” Essek’s thoughts are tripping over one another. He shakes his head to clear them. “But your _friends_ , Caleb. Your _world_ …?”

Caleb pushes away from the desk. He walks over to one of the windows, pulls the blinds to the side. There is nothing but the starry night sky outside. Caleb folds his hands behind his back.

“I did all that I could for my world,” he says after a moment. “There was nothing left to be done. And I… I had to try. To make this right. I had to try.”

Essek swallows. “Something has happened, hasn’t it? In your timeline?”

“I’d rather spare you the details,” Caleb replies quietly. He trails his fingers over the window sill. Even from all the way across the room, Essek can see the tremble in his hands. “You’ve come here for a reason, I presume. What is it?”

It takes Essek a while to collect his thoughts.

Finally, he says, “In your own timeline, have you found any evidence connecting the Assembly to the Chained Oblivion?”

Caleb does turn around this time. He considers Essek for a long moment, thoughtful.

“It’s a useful spell you have there,” he says quietly. “Especially for someone as curious as you. Why not use it all the time? You once told me…” He swallows, looks away. “You once told me there are countless different worlds. Surely gathering knowledge from all of these worlds would make you the most powerful mage in history. What’s stopping you?”

Essek shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

“It’s powerful magic,” he hedges.

Caleb slants him a look. “You’re a powerful wizard.”

Essek sighs. “And there are side-effects, too,” he adds reluctantly. Echoing Caleb’s previous statement, he says, “I’d rather spare you the details.”

Caleb studies him for a moment. Then he says, “No.”

Essek frowns. “Excuse me?”

“You will tell me the details,” Caleb says evenly. “Or I won’t share what I know.”

Essek stares at him in disbelief. Caleb’s curiosity is ill-timed at best; he must realize that. Caleb, however, merely holds his gaze, his expression unreadable.

“Fine,” Essek says, annoyed. “Fine. One. Pain is a thing of the mind. If you get injured in another timeline, the pain will follow you back. And it’s difficult to get rid of it, with no injuries to heal.”

He still remembers the sharp ache of _Disintegrate_. He remembers it well enough that it remains trapped in his chest. Maybe its echo will always be there.

“Like pain in a missing limb,” Caleb summarizes, studying Essek’s face. “What else?”

Essek grits his teeth. “Two,” he says peevishly. “A body cannot function without the mind.”

Caleb nods thoughtfully. “So if you die in another timeline,” he says, “you die in your own timeline as well?”

“Not exactly,” Essek replies. “Casting the spell weakens your tether to your timeline. The more information you gather from other worlds, the more difficult it is to leave them behind. The more difficult it is to come back. If you die in another timeline, you can become untethered from both. You can get lost in-between.”

Softly, Caleb says, “And what’s in-between, Essek?”

Essek thinks of darkness, bright. Of silence, loud.

He says, “Nothing.”

For a while, Caleb is silent. Finally, he says, “Then why are you doing this?”

Essek huffs, irritated again. “It’s the only thing to _do_. Why did you travel through time, risking to unravel the universe, Widogast?”

“Out of guilt,” Caleb replies easily. Then he pauses. He looks away from Essek, towards the starry night sky. “No,” he corrects himself softly. “No. Out of love.”

Essek stares at him for a moment. Then he clears his throat, looks aside. “You have your answer, then.”

Caleb turns to him again. For a while, he simply holds Essek’s gaze. Then he sighs.

With a strange heaviness in his voice, he says, “I’ve missed you.”

He turns around and walks to the window again, seems to rub at the bridge of his nose. Against the endless, timeless expanse of the foreign sky, he looks as powerful as he looks alone.

For a moment, Essek feels strangely compelled to reach out to him, to walk to the window and stand by his side. But then Caleb sighs and straightens his back. When he turns around, his expression is once again controlled and calm. Once again, he seems as unreachable as the stars behind his back.

“Very well, Essek,” he says. “I’ll tell you all you need to know.”

*

Back in his office, Essek opens his eyes.

The world sways around him like he is kneeling on the ocean floor, miles away from the sky. Shadows crawl across the walls and floors. Ever hungry, the darkness grows.

The memories in Essek's head are disjointed, warping together and tangling into a mess that is becoming harder and harder to unravel. He is kneeling in his empty office. He is walking a forest path. He is silent. He is humming along to Yasha’s songs. He is laughing with Beauregard. He is fighting. He is giving up.

He shakes his head, forces himself to stand up. Reluctantly, the world around him solidifies.

In his chest, there is an echo of a deadly spell. Before him, there is the last stretch of his path.

_Not out of guilt_ , he thinks. _Out of love_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought you had seen the last of me! Alas, here I am. 
> 
> First of all, thank you for your patience. Second of all, I'll be honest with you - writing has been difficult lately. I imagine it might show. Also, please be advised that this chapter ends with a cliffhanger. If you'd rather wait until the entire story is done, I completely understand.
> 
> Third of all, I'd like to thank you all for your wonderful comments. They mean everything to me. I'm sorry that I haven't replied to all of them, but please know that I read and reread them often and I'm very grateful for every single one of them.
> 
> Last but not least, please check out the [beautiful art](https://twitter.com/caltracat/status/1328546640093855744?s=21) that lovely [darundik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darundik/profile) created for the first chapter of this story! ♥ :")
> 
> ♥

** V. **

*

There is sunlight. It streams through the open windows and through the cracks in the walls. The skies are unchanging, dimmed despite the lack of clouds. Time passes. No one comes. There is wind, picking up specks of dust, twirling silver cobwebs in greying light. There is silence, prowling in the shadows, hungry for any sound. The sun doesn’t set. The moons never rise. There is only sunlight and the crumbling tower in the sky.

Time passes.

No one comes.

*

Silence hangs heavy in the room, thick like the velvet curtains, familiar like Mother’s perfume. It nestles between the silver cutlery and the priceless porcelain, lurks in the crystalline glasses, stretches lazily over the empty space. There is a clock ticking in the corridor, the intricate mechanisms shifting and shifting, unwinding beat by beat. The wine tastes of cinnamon and spice, of upcoming winter and of everlasting frost.

In the far end of the chamber, the door opens without a sound.

One of Mother’s assistants crosses the room and bends in a bow. The clock in the corridor ticks and tocks. Across the table from Essek, Verin takes a careful sip from his glass. His body is tense, his expression blank. His hair is falling to his shoulders in waves.

Mother dismisses the assistant with a nod.

“Forgive me,” she says, her first words this evening. “I have pressing duties to attend to.”

She stands up and pushes her long braid to her back. Her hair glimmers with threads of silver, her polite smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She offers neither a further explanation, nor a goodbye. Instead, she collects the documents spread at her end of the table, her cold meal long pushed to the side, her wine untouched.

Then she leaves the room, without sparing Verin and Essek another glance.

Just as silently as it opened, the door shuts.

*

“You must think yourself very clever,” Trent Ikithon says. “But I have time. I will drag the truth out of you, one useless memory at a time. You can fight me all you like.”

There were no footsteps to announce his arrival, no creak of the wooden door, no shadow on a wall. At one point, Essek was alone, and then he was not.

Through one of the windows, a gust of wind sends crumbled tree leaves inside. They twirl briefly in the draft and then they settle around Essek’s feet, red like blood. Except, of course, there is no wind. There are no tree leaves, either. There is no crumbling tower in the sky.

There is only his own mind.

He needs to remember that part.

*

The garden is quiet, with the birds already nested for the night. There is wind whispering softly in the crowns of the trees. Essek rubs restlessly at his knuckles, neither bruised nor covered in blood. The sky is familiar, bright with stars. Verin is walking by his side. The ache in Essek’s chest is just an echo of a spell. For now, he is safe from harm.

“Remember when I fell off that tree?” Verin says idly, pointing to the old weeping willow, its long branches rustling like threads of silver that Mother weaves into her hair.

Essek hums. “I remember,” he says. “Mother was not pleased.”

“Is she ever?” Verin says. He kicks a small rock on their path and sends it flying directly into one of the flowerbeds. “What was that spell she had you cast then?”

“ _Tether Essence_ ,” Essek replies, slanting Verin an annoyed look. “It was a difficult spell. And then you fell off a tree _again_.”

Verin grins. “I did, didn’t I?”

Essek sighs in exasperation. “Your point?”

“My point,” Verin says lightly, “is that you look like shit, Essek. Did you fall off any trees lately?”

Essek waves his hand dismissively. “Just a small experiment gone awry. I’ll be fine.”

“Famous last words,” Verin mutters, but he lets the matter drop.

The city is quiet, the cobblestones polished with rain and coated in starlight. Essek looks at the houses they pass, at the warm glow of candlelight streaming out of several windows, at the soothing darkness nestling in others. He looks at the silhouettes of people moving around, going about their business, settling for the night.

He has wandered these streets many times without ever looking up.

Verin walks quietly by his side, easily keeping up with Essek’s levitation spell. The farther away they get from their childhood house, the easier it is to spot Verin’s laughter lines.

They come to a stop at the gates of Essek’s home.

“I suppose I will see you when Mother remembers about us again,” Verin says with a lopsided smile. “Take care, Essek.”

“You could stay,” Essek says abruptly. “Surely you’re not traveling to Bazzoxan tonight. We could have a drink. Talk.”

Verin snorts. “What about?” Then he smiles a little, looks away. “Thank you, brother, but…”

He glances up at the tower and Essek knows what he sees; the high windows, the silence lurking inside. He has never quite realized how similar he made his home to their childhood house.

For a moment, he imagines the Mighty Nein’s home, imagines the laughter filtering through the walls. And he imagines the quiet of shared breaths, of paper rustling beneath careful hands, of candlewax slowly melting away.

He smiles faintly and says, “Perhaps another time, then.”

“Perhaps,” Verin agrees readily. “Good night, Essek.”

He turns around, already reaching up to tie his hair into a messy ponytail. The farther away he walks, the lighter is his step, and the heavier weighs Essek’s heart.

*

“Such loneliness,” Trent Ikithon muses, a faint smile curling in the corner of his mouth. He is flipping idly through Essek’s spell book, without paying it much mind. “Naturally, Bren knew how to take advantage of that. He really is my best student by far.”

Essek snorts. His throat is parched, his lips are chapped, and he would do quite a lot for a single sip of wine, but he is not going to fall for a trap as obvious as _that_.

He says, “Well, you are by far his worst teacher.”

“Am I?” Trent says, unconcerned. He opens the spell book on one of Essek’s most precious spells and runs his fingers carelessly down the page. “I taught him everything he knows. All he is, he is thanks to me.”

“No,” Essek says. He licks his lips and tastes blood. “Not thanks to you. Not despite you, even. You don’t get to play a part.”

There is a pause. Somewhere in the distance, the wind picks up. Essek imagines clouds sailing through the sky, fluffy with rain that will soon soak the ground, that will polish old cobblestones and shake leaves from tree crowns.

Trent looks towards one of the windows, then back at Essek again. There is coldness in his eyes that reminds Essek of the lifeless tundra in the north, of ice that never thaws.

“You know nothing of greatness, child,” Trent says, closing the book in his lap. “Nor of its price.”

He leans forward and meets Essek’s gaze again.

He says, “Now, let us try harder this time.”

*

Essek makes his way through his quiet home, trailing his fingertips lightly over the sharp edges of the elegant furniture and over the smooth layers of the tapestry decorating the walls.

He has walked through these rooms a thousand times. He has walked through them with a book in hand, lost in thoughts. He has walked through them early in the morning, while the city came alive with sound. And he has walked through them late at night, while the city quieted down.

His office is just as silent as the rest of the tower, but here at least he can hear the wind whispering outside. He wishes briefly for rain, but the sky remains cloudless, bright with stars.

Slowly, Essek walks over to his desk. He removes the protective spells with a wave of his hand. Then, from the last drawer, he takes out the scroll with his spell and all the notes he compiled so far. From the pocket of his mantle, he fishes out a single amber figurine and then four smaller amber pieces and sets them at the edges of the desk.

Recreating Caleb’s spell was not an easy task, but magic is the oldest friend Essek has. He understands it in a way he doubts he ever will understand anything else. And he understands Caleb, too. In a way he doubts he ever will understand anyone else.

The spell shimmers in the air for a moment, golden and bright. Essek picks up the figurine and sets it aside. He wants it found, but he doesn’t want it found by just anyone.

Then he strews some meaningless papers and reports on the desk, recasts the protective spells, and steps back to consider his work. It’s strange, that there really is nothing else to be done. There is no one to write to. There are no other matters to settle.

From the cupboard by the door, Essek picks up his component pouch. Carefully, he straps it to his belt. He doesn’t need to check its contents. All he needs is already prepared.

 _It can be done_ , Archmage Widogast told him. _But it will be far from easy, Essek. And far from safe._

Essek takes a deep breath, looks around the room one last time, and teleports away.

*

“I do believe he is fond of you,” Trent Ikithon muses. “In his own way.”

There is silence, again. The skies are unchanging, dimmed despite the lack of clouds. Essek swallows tightly. He hasn’t had a sip of water in days. He can’t quite remember in how many; time around here seems to blur. It’s as if the sun never sets. As if the moons never rise.

But that, of course, is impossible.

 _He is not fond of me_ , Essek thinks.

The world sways around him, refusing to solidify. It must be the fever making its way through his body, gnawing at his muscles, obscuring his thoughts. Around him, the tower is slowly crumbling down.

“Of course he is,” Trent Ikithon says patiently. He is sitting in a chair in front of Essek, his hands resting lightly in his lap. “A father always knows such things.”

Essek lurches forward with a snarl, but the bindings keep him in place, the rope digging into his wrists and now also into his throat. For a moment, Trent simply watches him heave for breath.

Then he says, “Now, show me what happened next.”

*

There is a trap on the door of the Assembly’s safehouse, woven into the wood and metal. It glimmers enticingly, whispers of power and of death. As Essek kneels cautiously on the ground, he imagines Caleb kneeling by his side, pointing out the threads of the spell and tugging carefully at its knots. He thinks of instructions told to him in a lonely tower amidst the stars, of drawings made with a steady hand. He imagines a touch on his wrist, guiding him through the spell.

There are guards inside, one to the left, two to the right. They cost him magic, more than he’d like, but as he fights, he imagines Yasha and Fjord fighting by his side and Caduceus and Jester casting spells to keep him from losing too much blood.

There is the poison, then, circulating leisurely through the corridor, forcing its way into his nose and mouth, worming its way down his throat and spreading like vines in his lungs. It bites and it bites, until he begins to cough, until the corridor starts spinning before his eyes. As he walks, he imagines Veth running ahead, shouting haphazard instructions to the Nein, creating the antidote on the spot as they tried to get out of the poisonous cloud. When he makes it to the end of the corridor, he uncorks the bottle with the antidote he prepared in advance, the one he had to make and remake several times before he finally got it right.

Then there is the labyrinth of hallways and corridors, of turns and dead ends, stretching for miles and miles beneath the ground. Only a brilliant mind could map it out. As Essek walks — first right then left, then left, then right, and so on — he imagines Beauregard walking by his side, her boots clicking steadily against the stone floor, her shoulder warm against his own.

*

“ _No_ ,” Essek snaps. “Get _out._ ”

“Why do you struggle so much?” Trent Ikithon asks. “Do you truly think they will come to your rescue? We have all the time in the world, you and I. You might as well tell me how you discovered that safehouse and what exactly you were hoping to find.” He leans in and murmurs, almost kindly, “Give up, child. There is no way out.”

It is as if Trent’s voice is the only sound around. Essek cannot even hear his own breathing, cannot hear his own heart. The silence is suffocating, as if there are cotton flowers blooming in his mind.

But he has already outgrown silence once.

*

There is a room in the safehouse, with its walls covered in bookshelves, with no windows and no other doors. In the middle of the room stands an elegant desk and behind it, an elegant chair. And upon the desk, there is a bottle of ink, a trap, and a curse.

 _Veth tried to dismantle it, several times_ , Archmage Widogast told him, _and if she couldn’t do it, you and I don’t stand a chance._

 _No_ , Essek said. _I suppose we don’t_.

He studies the desk and the shimmer of power surrounding it, thinks of kindness and bravery, thinks of everything that he is not.

And then he thinks of his magic, of power and control, but more than anything, he thinks of comfort, thinks of warmth. He thinks of his books, of the soft rustle of paper beneath his fingertips. He thinks of drawings and equations, thinks of mysteries solved and secrets unraveled.

He thinks of kneeling in front of Verin, grasping his hands to cast _Tether Essence_ , and whispering, _Next time we both fall_.

He thinks of designing the Transmogrification Spell with Caleb, thinks of the smile on Caleb’s lips, of happiness and of hope. He thinks of things that could have been and now will never be, thinks of choices never made, of paths he didn’t take.

And he thinks of wandering the silent corridors of his childhood home, of magic whispering to him from the pages of his old books, keeping him company whenever he felt alone.

Then he places his hand on the desk and just like that, his magic is gone.

*

Somewhere in the distance, there is rain, quiet like the murmur of waves trapped in a seashell. In the tower, however, silence still reigns. There is no more wind. There are no more leaves. There are no more windows. The entire world has been reduced to Essek’s bound hands and bound legs, and to Trent Ikithon standing before him, the smile finally gone from his face.

He says, “You knew.”

Essek thinks of everything that silence is not, thinks of open skies, of crackling fire, of endless seas. He thinks of foreign songs, thinks of cities coming alive with sound, thinks of rustle of paper in the library, of greetings exchanged, of whispers shared. He thinks of Beauregard’s laughter and of Jester’s teasing remarks, thinks of the melody that Yasha played on her harp, thinks of the click of Veth’s yellow boots on the ground, thinks of Caleb’s soft farewell murmured when they saw each other for the very last time.

“I did,” Essek says. Somehow, his own words once again sound clear. Somehow, the burn of dehydration has eased. “Of course I did.”

Somewhere in the distance, the rain builds into a storm.

*

When all is done, he doesn’t try to run away.

He sits at the edge of the desk, instead, and listens to the footsteps in the corridor. They are unhurried. Leisurely, even. A spider wandering its web while its prey can do nothing but flutter its wings, hoping against hope to escape.

 _I’m afraid_ , Archmage Widogast told him, _that I can’t think of a way out._

Instead of running, Essek thinks back to the story he has heard. He imagines Yasha lifting up her sword. He imagines Jester raising her hand, the symbol at her belt flashing green, her fangs flashing white. He imagines Fjord’s eyes glowing with light reflected in his blade. He imagines the comforting touch of Caduceus’ hand on his arm. He imagines Beauregard punching him in the shoulder a little too hard. And he imagines Caleb standing by his side.

For a moment, even without his magic, he is safe from harm.

There is an envelope prepared on the desk, thick with documents, sealed with a single drop of candlewax.

On top of it, with the familiar ink that burns like fire and will soon turn charcoal-black, Essek writes, _The Mighty Nein_.

With a flash of light, the letter disappears from his hands.

*

Across the endless expanse of the sky, a lightning cracks.

Essek clears his throat. “A useful trick, that,” he says. “It bypasses magical wards, allowing you to send letters directly to my home. It doesn’t even require a spell, only the enchanted ink that you like to keep around.” It barely even stings to smile. “Did you forget I’m a thief, Archmage? Bad idea, showing me your tricks like that.”

He can hear every drop of the rain now, can hear them crash into stone and soak into the ground. He can also once again hear his own heartbeat and the rush of air in his own lungs. And he knows, with absolute certainty, that the crumbling tower in the sky exists only in his own mind.

Trent Ikithon says, “You think they can stop us? You think they stand a chance?”

“I know they can,” Essek says. “In a way, they already have.”

“Such faith,” Trent snarls, stepping forward. “And from such a faithless thing. Do you still not understand, child, that there are no limits to what I can do to your mind? I can make seconds last millennia. I can inflict pain you cannot even imagine. I can raze your mind to the ground. There will be no saving you after that.”

“No,” Essek agrees easily. “I suppose not.”

Trent Ikithon watches him for a long moment. Despite the fury in his voice, the frost in his eyes doesn’t thaw.

“Or,” he says slowly, “or perhaps this could be a learning opportunity for Bren as well. He trusts too easily. Shall we make you into a teaching tool in my hand? What do you say?”

 _He will not kill you, Essek,_ Archmage Widogast said. _He will do things far, far worse than that._

Around him, the tower in the sky is crumbling down. Essek thinks of worlds other than his own, of foreign cities and unfamiliar skies, of paths never taken, of crossroads never reached. He thinks of threads of destiny and possibility and fate.

 _And I’m afraid_ , Archmage Widogast told him, _that I can’t think of a way out._

 _It’s alright,_ Essek said. _I can._

He thinks of the tether connecting him to this world. And he makes his mind into a blade.

“I say,” he replies, looking up at Trent, “get the fuck out of my head.”

*

A flash of pain punches all air out of Essek’s lungs, and _then_ his back crashes against a wall.

For a moment, he thinks he must have miscalculated, must have overestimated his ability to break the tether connecting him to his world, but then he realizes that he is standing now and his hands and legs are no longer bound. There is magic rushing like a current through his body, crackling with power, warm with comfort. Essek focuses on it for a moment, on the sense of safety it brings.

He has expected nothingness. He has expected darkness, bright and silence, loud.

He had neither the components, nor the magic left to actually _cast_. He only wanted to tear his mind out of Trent’s grasp.

And yet, the world around him solidifies. And yet, there is light.

For a moment, he is safe. For a moment, he is glad to be alive. For a moment, he thinks that whatever world he found himself in, it cannot be worse than the crumbling tower in the sky.

Then he realizes that he can still taste his own blood.

And then he looks down to see a dagger buried in his gut.

“Where is your silly magic now?” a familiar voice asks, and Essek’s blood turns to ice.

A part of him doesn’t want to look up. It’s easier to stare at the dagger, buried in his body to the hilt, than it is to look at the hand wielding it, covered in a black glove, and yet so familiar nonetheless. It’s easier to focus on the sickening feeling of the blade brushing against the bone than it is to look at the arm currently pressed to his neck, holding him in place. It’s easier to wish for death than to look up and meet the eerie cold of Caleb’s gaze.

Except it isn’t Caleb, of course. It’s just a Scourger who sneaked into Essek’s tower in the middle of the night, triggering only the best of his alarms. It’s a nameless Scourger that Essek had every intention of killing, a spell already sizzling to life in the palm of his hand, power already rushing through his veins. It’s a nameless Scourger who is already wheezing through a punctured lung, who is minutes away from being captured and killed for attempting to assassinate the Dynasty’s Shadowhand.

Essek lets his killing spell fizzle out.

“Well?” Caleb — not Caleb — _Caleb_ prompts coolly, shifting the dagger just enough to remind Essek of its presence. “I can feel you’re not quite done.”

Even the way he speaks is different. Gone is his accent, gone is the halting way he forms words into sentences, gone is the way some vowels curl too softly on his tongue, while others grow too sharp. He is a completely different man, but it doesn’t make Essek any more willing to hurt him.

He is tired. It has been a long, long day. And out of all possible worlds and all possible timelines, fate has decided to bring him here.

Perhaps this is a fitting end.

“Just do it,” Essek murmurs. “It won’t be easy to get out of here. You have little time.”

Caleb snorts. “You’re hardly in a position to make threats.”

Essek cracks a smile. “I’m not threatening you,” he says quietly, trying to breathe shallowly so that the blade doesn’t drag against his ribs with every exhale. He lets himself soak in the memories of this timeline; it doesn’t much matter if he gets trapped here, after all. “The Aurora Watch are patrolling the streets, but if you take the first turn right after you reach the main street, you should be able to avoid them.” He pauses to think again and wonders briefly how much time he has, what Trent will do with his body once he realizes that Essek’s consciousness isn’t quite there. “Downstairs, you will find some healing potions in the bathroom, by the mirror. Grab them on your way out.”

Caleb laughs. There is blood in the corner of his lips, now. He wipes it off with his thumb.

He says, “You expect me to _follow your advice_?”

“You won’t survive this otherwise,” Essek says quietly, letting his gaze wander over Caleb’s face and then his body, noting the way he is holding himself and remembering all the injuries they inflicted on each other during their brief but terrifying fight. “And I don’t want you to die.”

“Moments ago, you didn’t seem to mind,” Caleb says, still smiling an amused, cold smile.

“ _He_ didn’t mind, no,” Essek says wearily. “I do. Now, go.”

Caleb doesn’t go. He makes a move as if to pull the dagger out and then he hisses out a breath, doubling over with pain, and Essek belatedly remembers that Caleb might not even make his way downstairs with his lung collapsing like that.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I don’t know any healing spells.”

Caleb snarls wordlessly and then straightens again, gripping the dagger, though he still doesn’t pull it out, which would inevitably lead to Essek bleeding out.

“Doesn’t matter,” he snaps. “Someone will come for me.”

Essek has heard that line before. There have been other assassins in this timeline, sent by the Assembly to tie up loose ends. He closes his eyes, then forces them open again.

“Nobody is coming,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, Caleb, but nobody is coming for you.”

There is a pause. “What did you just call me?”

 _Oh, right._ “My mistake,” Essek says.

“ _No_ ,” Caleb snaps, pressing his arm against Essek’s chest. “How do you know that name?” He pauses, his gaze skittering wildly over Essek’s face. “Who the fuck are you?”

Essek sighs. “It’s a very long story. And you need to leave. Now.”

But Caleb doesn’t leave. He lets go of the dagger instead, taking a step back. Without his arm pressing against Essek’s chest and effectively holding him up, there is nothing keeping Essek from sliding down the wall and so he does, barely noticing the way the blade shifts again, his robes soaking further with blood.

Caleb keeps staring at him for a long moment, until he forgets himself and takes a deeper breath again. He groans, pressing a hand to his ribcage. With a determined set to his jaw, he staggers to the window and grimaces as he looks down, then he glances to the open door and the steep steps behind it.

Then he takes a step towards Essek and, to Essek’s bewilderment, he drops to the floor by Essek’s side.

Essek blinks at him. “What are you doing?”

Caleb cranes his head back to rest it against the wall. “You are right,” he murmurs, letting his eyes fall closed. “Nobody is coming for me.” He huffs a small, amused breath. “Now, how do you know that name?”

Essek looks at him for a long moment, nearly forgetting about the dagger with the warmth of Caleb’s body so close, their shoulders nearly touching now. He thinks of the crumbling tower in the sky, of silence hunting for any sound, of days and days spent alone while not a single cloud passed by.

“I’m not… him,” Essek says, trying to gather his thoughts through the pounding of blood in his ears. “The man you came here to kill.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow, cracking one eye open. “You’re not the Dynasty’s Shadowhand.”

Essek sighs. “I _am_ , just not… _this_ Shadowhand. I can… travel. Between timelines.”

Caleb gives him a long look.

“Travel between timelines,” he echoes, though he doesn’t sound particularly disbelieving. “And you came _here_.”

“Accidentally,” Essek admits. “I’ve expected… something else.”

Caleb huffs a laugh. “Yes, I bet you have.”

For a moment, it’s quiet. There are only their shared breaths and the desolation of Essek’s office, the crackling of the fire catching by the door, the wheezing of damaged magical instruments. Essek soaks in the muted sounds, follows the beating of his own heart. His own magic nests quietly in his chest, ready to keep him safe from any harm. It’s the most at peace he has felt in a very long time.

Then Caleb says, “You know me. In your timeline. You know me.”

“Yes,” Essek admits.

“Under _that_ name,” Caleb adds.

“Yes.”

“So I… escaped,” Caleb says, seemingly more to himself than to Essek. “And he didn’t hunt me down?”

 _Such a telling choice of words_ , Essek thinks.

“I believe he locked you up in an asylum for a decade,” he replies carefully. “And then you escaped. And then you made some powerful friends.”

“Like you,” Caleb ventures hesitantly.

Essek huffs a laugh. “Oh, no,” he says. “I’m afraid I didn’t help you with much of anything at all.”

“Oh,” Caleb says. Inexplicably, he sounds disappointed.

Essek watches him quietly, ignoring the way his body slowly begins to grow numb, the echo of his heartbeat becoming louder in his ears. Caleb’s hair is falling into his eyes, nearly as long as it is in Essek’s timeline, and Essek frowns a little at that.

“I thought he forced you to keep your hair short,” he comments, for no reason in particular.

Caleb huffs a breath that isn’t quite a laugh and looks at Essek again.

“Yes, he would like that,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But unlike most things, that’s not something he can control.”

Essek can’t stop a small smile from curling on his lips. Even in such dim light, Caleb’s eyes are fiercely bright, and Essek nearly sees the fire building behind them. It’s an oddly hopeful sight.

“Rebellion looks well on you,” he murmurs, letting his eyes fall closed again.

There is a beat of silence. “We are not friends, then?” Caleb asks softly. “In your world?”

Essek swallows, forcing himself to open his eyes again. “I’d like to think we were, for a little while,” he says, meeting Caleb’s gaze. It’s strange, how weightless the words feel now that his body is growing so heavy and numb. “And I am, of course, hopelessly in love with you.”

Caleb draws in a sharp breath at that, but Essek is no longer looking at him, letting his eyes once again fall closed. He startles, though, when he feels a light pressure against his arm as Caleb leans into him, just for a moment. They must both be delirious from losing too much blood.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb offers quietly, and Essek knows he doesn’t mean the pain he inflicted in this timeline.

He manages a small smile. “Don’t be,” he says, resisting the urge to tuck Caleb’s hair behind his ear. “It’s a good feeling. My favorite one.”

And he means it, too. It doesn’t matter that it’s a hopeless love, it doesn’t matter that it will never see the light of day and that it will stay buried in his heart. It doesn’t matter, because just feeling it made his world a little better, his life a little more worthwhile. It used to be so cold, before. And it’s warmer, now, thanks to the Mighty Nein. Just knowing that they are out there somewhere, pressed together like little kittens beneath Caleb’s dome as they sleep, or laughing together as they travel through foreign lands — just knowing that is enough.

“Oh,” Caleb says.

Just then, the door downstairs bursts open, the voices of the Aurora Watch filling the tower. Caleb freezes in place, terror gripping his muscles just for a moment, and it’s easy to make the decision Essek was so hesitant to make. He will die in this world, of course, but it’s likely that he is about to die in his own timeline as well. And saving Caleb in any world will always be worth his life.

He clears his throat, raises his hand, and just before the Aurora Watch burst into the room, he casts.

*

The sunlight is blinding, but not nearly as blinding as the pain in Essek’s chest as he falls to his knees. The dagger shifts sharply, drawing even more blood. The world briefly goes black, but then it comes into focus again and Caleb — not Caleb — _Caleb_ is kneeling on the sand before Essek, his eyes wide, his hands cradling Essek’s face.

“You had enough magic left for a fucking _Teleportation Spell_?” he demands, but he sounds more bewildered than angry. “Hey! Wake up! I’m talking to you!”

Essek blinks drowsily. “We are close to Nicodranas now,” he murmurs. “There is a wizard here. Yussa. Your ally in another life. He can offer you protection from the Assembly. If you still have some rebellion left in you.” With a snap of his fingers, he manages to summon his spell book, and pushes it into Caleb’s hands. “This should suffice for a trade.”

Caleb sits back on his heels, staring down at the book. He smooths one hand down the cover, his fingers trembling in something akin to reverence. Then he looks up at Essek.

“Who even _is_ he?” he demands, and his voice cracks a little. “To be worthy of this? To have earned your loyalty like that? Who the fuck _is_ he?”

“He is _you_ ,” Essek says with quiet, simple certainty and he leans in just a little to press a kiss to Caleb’s forehead. “He chose a better path, true. Or perhaps he simply chose it earlier than you. But there is no world in which we only have one path to tread. And your potential for kindness and goodness is exactly the same. As is my faith in you.”

Caleb keeps staring at him, even as Essek’s world slowly begins to lose focus, this time most likely for good. He breathes in, tasting salt on his tongue, and thinks idly that in a way, he is home.

And then Caleb surges up to kiss him.

It’s sudden enough to push the breath back into Essek’s lungs and to force the world into focus again. The kiss is more desperation than anything else on Caleb’s part, fierce and frantic and wild, and Essek finds himself kissing back gently, instinctively trying to soothe the emotion he cannot even begin to identify. For a moment, his mind is quiet. For a moment, his thoughts do not race. For a moment, he forgets the crumbling tower in the sky.

Then Caleb pulls back, and he is shaking now, holding onto the collar of Essek’s robes with both hands. His eyes are blazing with fire, with certainty and conviction and resolve.

“You are _not_ dying here,” he snaps with a strange sort of fury.

 _It’s alright_ , Essek wants to say, but he can’t quite force his body to cooperate. Over Caleb’s shoulder, he looks at the rising sun, turning the waves into molten gold. The hum of the sea is soothing, quieting down the echo of his own heartbeat, the pounding of blood in his ears.

Tentatively, he rests his chin on Caleb’s shoulder, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of his skin, listening to the steady, familiar beating of his heart. The waves roll towards them and then away, a gentle murmur that will never cease or change. Clouds sail through the sky, fluffy with rain that will soon soak the ground, that will polish old cobblestones and shake leaves from tree crowns.

Somewhere in the distance, the city comes alive with sound.

Somewhere in his chest, Essek’s heart beats once, twice, and then it quiets down.

*

_Dear Mighty Nein,_

_Although by now I owe you more than I could ever repay, I’m afraid I have one last request to make._

_Attached you will find several documents. I’m certain you can make sense of them. Along with your testimony, they should suffice to prove the Assembly’s involvement with the Chained Oblivion. Although I do not wish to force your hand, I urge you to act quickly and bring the matter directly to your King. I will try to stall for time, but once the Assembly discovers that I sent you this letter, they will undoubtedly intervene. Should you need the assistance of the Dynasty, contact my brother. His name is Verin, he is the Taskhand of Bazzoxan. He is a brave, kind man. He will not deny you his help._

_Thank you, for everything. I will always be grateful that, however briefly, our paths could converge._

_Until we meet again,_

_Essek_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥


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